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"Oh, don't let me gol Keep me here with you, Mr. Peter"

THE QUERRILS

STACY AUMONIER

Author of "Just Outside," "Olg* Bardel,"
"The Friends," etc

NEW YORK

THE CENTURY CO.

1919

• • •

9 it*

Published, August, 1919

.• • • • • • •

•: •: ; ;

•*• l l *l •*! ••• •*•

• "•'

• • i • • • " t • •

CONTENTS

PAOI

I The Queeril Set 3

II The Rainbow 17

III Sleepy Eyes with Cobybantic Depths 37

IV The Interferes 58

V Emma Goes to the Pig-Sty . . • . 78

VI The Volga Boat Song 95

VII The Intensive Courtship .... 115

VIII Sacre du Printemps 135

IX Ptolemy the Second has a Relapse . 154

X Film-Land 173

XI Mb. Querril Asks for Cheese . . . 187

XII Peter's Letter to Tony MacDowell . 205

XIII Tony in Request 217

XIV The Wrestling Match 231

XV An Island Story 248

XVI The Idealist Versus the Philosopher 271

XVII "There is No Answer' ' 293

XVIII The Foreshore Woman 309

The Man Who Grumbled His Way to
God 332

* ( '' r\ , v

THE QUERRILS

• • • e

• • * * _• •

THE QUERRILS

CHAPTER I

THB QUEEEIL SET

XTt THEN the Querrils first went to live at
V V Chessilton Heath they occupied one of
the few houses scattered along the south side.
The village was an amorphous segregation of
villadom and tin chapels, turning its back on the
heath. But some genius, foreseeing the possi-
bilities of the place, set to work and laid out a
golf course.

Now the result of this energy acted upon the
interests of the inhabitants either as a blessing
or a curse, according to point of view. For
Chessilton Heath golf course became one of the
best and the club one of the most famous,
throughout England ; and the village blossomed
into an unbalanced but peculiarly vitalized town.
A famous member of the Government established
his week-end quarters near the golf club-house,
and attracted around him a coterie of friends and

* • • • •

i* • • •

* • ••

4 V. : :/: ':::":':THE.^tTERRILS

followers. A director of the railway company
settled there, and his presence insured an im-
proved train service with London. There ar-
rived two editors of daily papers, a whisky mag-
nate who was also a patron of the arts, a famous
playwright, several lawyers, a reasonable number
of actresses not living with their husbands, and
a crowd of people who were doing things in
finance, the motor industry, oil, art, and journal-
ism. To these must be added odd, mysterious
people in the wake of the cabinet minister, who
lurked behind that jeremiad of activities which
ululate at the back of the political arena.

The golf club-house was a center of consider-
able social activity, as well as the Dormy house,
where members and their friends could stay.
There one could dine, smoke, drink, flirt, play
billiards, talk scandal, or promulgate schemes of
social reform. On many a glorious summer day
one might peep into the " mixed room " and ob-
serve mixed people playing bridge from early
morning till late evening. Golf at times threat-
ened to become a Cinderella of more adventurous
games.

The attitude of the Querril family towards this
social development was somewhat similar to their
attitude towards the majority of abstract ques-
tions ; that is to say, it was a compromise. They

THE QUEERIL SET 5

professed a rather eclectic Bohemianism. They
were always outwardly deploring this upward
thrust of fashion. They were not fond of golf
and seldom played. Nevertheless, Mr. Querril
and Martin — the eldest boy — both' joined the
club and had their names inscribed on little brass
plates on lockers. This gave the family certain
rights and privileges. And much as they re-
sented the invasion of their adopted village, they
delighted to meet new people and to be friendly.
Some one once asked Mr. Querril if he were a
socialist, and he replied :

" Yes. Or, in any case, I believe in the basis
of socialism, which is to be sociable."

And it was quite true. He was quite as
genial, garrulous, and at home in the drawing-
room of a bishop as in the shop of the man
soling and heeling his boots. As a family, they
dressed badly — with the exception of Magda.
Mr. Querril himself dressed deplorably. But he
could not conceal the fact that beneath his badly
fitting clothes, his square-toed boots, his soft col-
lar, and rather over-bunchy tie he was not only
a gentleman, but what is considered a gentle-
man — which is a very different and more ex-
clusive thing.

There was one matter upon which the Querril
family would not yield to any kind of social dic-

6 THE QUERRILS

tation. It concerned the decoration of their
home and the disposition of their household gods.
They possessed a few good pictures and several
sound pieces of old furniture, but their collection
was for the most part an almost incredibly ugly
potpourri of mid- Victorian furniture, gimcrack
ornaments, and photographs. This bourgeois
hotch-potch was not due to an essential lack of
taste — they were all keenly appreciative of
beauty in other people's homes; it was due en-
tirely to sentimental reasons. If some one
vaguely hinted that a particularly ugly chair
might be removed from the morning-room, Mrs.
Querril would remark :

" I cannot let that go, darling. It belonged to
my mother."

Nearly everything in the house had a senti-
mental association. The mahogany dining-room
suite, which Mr. and Mrs. Querril bought when
they were engaged (he was twenty-two and she
was nineteen); all their wedding presents; a
black-and-gold writing-desk which " my darling
Susie gave me when she broke up her home after
poor John's death " ; an ormolu clock which
" Aunt Lena bought us at the Paris Exhibition " ;
a terrible collection of pastels which were hung
in the drawing-room for no more excusable rea-
son than that they were perpetrated by Cousin

THE QUEERIL SET 7

Mildred. And then the photographs! They
snapped up every available spare foot in the
house. Enlargements of Mr. and Mrs. Querril in
a wedding group, photographs of Mr. Querril
when he was a Cambridge undergraduate, photo-
graphs of Mrs. Querril holding Magda in her
arms, photographs of Magda and Evelyn to-
gether, in stiff print frocks ; of Martin and Rod-
ney in cricket flannels, of Peter in a velvet suit,
standing on a chair ; Magda with her hair up,
Magda as she appeared for a fancy-dress dance,
a family group taken on the tennis lawn. There
.were photographs in white frames, in oak frames,
in mahogany frames. They flooded the stair-
cases and even found their way into the bath-
rooms.

It may appear irregular to describe people's
furniture before describing the people them-
selves, but do we not, ip effect, usually found our
introductions in this indirect way? And how
many people are there ,of whom we know only
the furniture, the clothes, the manners, and the
physical phenomena which hem them in? The
rest may require the association of a lifetime or
the covers of many stout volumes.

It is, in any case, not inappropriate to ap-

8 THE QUERRILS

proach the Querril mind through the vicarious
attitude of photographs and moribund heirlooms,
for this aspect of them was not confined to the
trappings of their physical existence but in-
fluenced their manners and entire mental out-
look. A stranger had to fight his or her way
through a bewildering manifestation of petty and
unaccountable actions and accidents. Indeed,
one had to live with them to perceive the many
fine skeins of this emotional and sentimental
quality which was woven into the fabric of their
united lives. They were intensely but quite un-
consciously sentimental. In theory they pro-
fessed to abhor sentimentality. They derided it
in novels or plays. They were simply blind to
the extent of it in which they were saturated
themselves. They were unselfish to an almost
abnormal degree. They lived so much for each
other, thought so much about each other, were
so dynamically, frenziedly, unrelentingly un-
selfish, that the thing was always defeating its
own ends. Each member of the family had little
peculiarities and fads which had been discov-
ered with great pains by other members, and
then encouraged and catered to. There was a
scrupulous endeavor to see that, though every
one was loved and fussed over exceedingly, in-

THE QUERRIL SET 9

eluding all their relatives and the people who
came to the house, no one was loved or fussed
over more than any one else. The result of this
bred a kind of impersonalism. They became less
like a community of individuals than an atmos-
phere of love and goodfellowship.

The visitor, indeed, who came to this very open
house sometimes found it difficult not only to
find his way through the photographs and furni-
ture and then to differentiate between the mem-
bers of the family, but even to determine who
were Querrils and who were n't. The house was
in a constant state of flux. Matters were also
a little complicated by the fact that their friends
and next-door neighbors, the Lemaires, were
nearly always with them, and the two Lemaire
girls, Annette and Joan, were about the same
age as Magda and Evelyn. Mrs. Lemaire was
a charming Frenchwoman, who had lived for
twenty-seven years in England and still spoke
English with a very broken accent. One reason
for this may have been that no one helped her
to improve her English, and in fact her daughters
frankly encouraged her mistakes. They seemed
unable to get over the charm of their mother.
They would kneel on the grass at her feet and
listen to her, and when she made some outrageous

10 THE QUERRILS

slip they would laugh with delight and clap their
hands, and Madame Lemaire would say :

" Have I said somet'ing w'ong? "

And then either Annette or Joan would kiss
her, and say:

" No, darling. You talk like an angel."

Mr. Lemaire, who only came down for week-
ends, was a naval engineer. He was a tall,
straight-limbed person, very Saxon, fair, clear of
eye, somewhat reserved but studiously courteous,
with a certain charm of manner not characteris-
tically Saxon. And there wtfs one Lemaire boy,
Cecil, who was at Charterhouse.

The Querrils and the Lemaires formed the
nucleus of a fluid state of social intercourse
which had its headquarters on the Querril tennis
court, or in Peter's studio, and which began to
be known at that time as " the Querril set."

Ill

That fortunate visitor we have spoken of, who
may have made a prolonged visit as a guest of
the Querril family, must soon have arrived at
certain very definite conclusions. For instance,
one may postulate that all men are equal, that
love is impartial, that self-abnegation is the
greatest of all virtues ; but this visitor, perhaps*

THE QUERRIL SET 11

half -dozing between the crisp white sheets in the
little spare bedroom overlooking the cherry-tree
(the birds always had all the cherries), may
have been suddenly brought face to face with the
realization that Mother Nature detests all these
premises in the same way that she is reputed to
abhor a vacuum. She wants to get on with her
job, and unselfishness does n't make babies, love
is above all things partial, and self-abnegation
has no place in the fields or heavens. What
does that brazen demi-monde the sunflower care
about the contortions of the ridiculous convolvu-
lus? . . .

And so to this semi-sleeper there must have
come a realization that beneath this bold bid for
a universal mind and communion of love there
still stirred the old pulse of primordial expres-
sion, little currents and cross-currents con-
stantly breaking away from the main stream;
above all, the unquenchable fires of individuality.
In the first place, there were two — if not
three — members of the family who quite un-
wittingly stood out from the rest. One could
not think of the Querril family without instinc-
tively thinking of Magda first. It may have been
partly because Magda was undeniably beautiful,
the only member of the family of whom the
claim could be made; but it was not only that,

12 THE QUERRIL8

for Magda's beauty was one of those affairs of
poise and glow without which all beauty is so
much tinsel. Everybody told their troubles to
Magda — a most dangerous quality to have. She
had masses of light-brown hair, which had a
way of catching the sun in little golden glints.
Her skin was pale, almost olive in repose, but it
glowed with a delicate warmth in action — and
Magda was always in action, either physically
or mentally. The face was round and rather
broad, the brown eyes always searching for sym-
pathy and giving more in return. She had a
peculiarly beautiful neck and chin, and a way
of holding herself which invited all your atten-
tion. You had to tell her everything, and hold
her hand in the process, and perhaps walk with
her slowly up and down the lawn; and after-
wards you had to wonder what Magda would
think of this and that. She quite unconsciously
became the pivot of the Querril family, because
of this insistent appeal of her personality, and
the fact that she was always in action.

Evelyn, her younger sister, had Magda's at-
mosphere, but she was less finely modeled. It
was as though the sculptor had set out to do
something even finer and subtler than Magda,
but the subtlety had been overdone and the re-
sult was rather nebulous. She had What was

THE QUERBIL SET 13

called a pretty effect, but an effect somewhat
disappointing on analysis. She was the young-
est member of the family, openly sentimental,
and more than any of the others perhaps a char-
tered embodiment of Querril foibles.

Next to Magda, Peter, the youngest boy, had
the most pronounced individuality. He was
shorter and stockier than either of his brothers;
a grinning, jolly boy with a square chin and a
mop of brown hair; always good-tempered and
the butt of endless jokes, but with an eye that
was not only humorous but reflective. Given to
long silences and cryptic and surprising phrases,
he differed from the others in many respects.
Peter on occasions even lost his temper, and of
course he was the favorite of his mother.
(Heavens! she would never have acknowledged
it ! ) He was nineteen at that time, afcd destined
to become a landscape painter. He had a
studio at the top of the house, which was also
used as a music and games room by the rest of
the family on occasions.

Martin and Rodney were twenty-six and
twenty-five respectively. Martin was a singular
counterpart of his father. He was angular and
very plain. He had the same kind brown eyes
and genial manners. He was equally short-
sighted, and wore thick glasses, and made the

14 THE QUERBILS

same atrocious puns. Also he helped his father
in business, which was that of a publisher of
works of reference.

Rodney had the reputation of representing the
intellectual side of the family. He was better-
looking than either Martin or Peter; tall, very
thin, with something a little languid and dis-
tinguished about his air. He spoke well at
times, and his jokes were less trite and his opin-
ions more formed. He had just emerged from
his pupil-ship to Sir John Ashbingham, the well-
known architect in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and had
taken an office in Grey's Inn. Rodney was the
only member of the family interested in social
matters, though he had persuaded both Martin
and Peter to assist him with work at the Treves
Settlement at Hammersmith, concerning the
activities of which we shall hear more later on.

It would be idle to pretend that tennis at the
Querrils' ever reached a high standard of pro-
ficiency. No one played particularly well, and
there was not infrequently a hardly concealed
conspiracy to let the other side win, especially
when Magda was playing in a set agaipst
" George," as all the family called Mr. Querrih

THE QUEBBIL SET 15

But the garden was delightful, and the lawn sunk
between three grass embankments, the highest be-
ing on the house-side, with little circular beds of
standard roses ; and here Mrs. Querril would pre-
side, like a figure of Perpetuity, in a solid wicker
chair, surrounded by needlework which always
occupied her hands but not her eyes, and novels
which she never read, and glittering tea-things,
and a wire-haired terrier called Potash, and oc-
casionally the more elusive Perlmutter — a slim
brown spaniel, who was, however, more fre-
quently away on some active business concern-
ing rabbit-holes, on the east side of the heath.

And to Mrs. Querril, this was the world, and
there was no other. Or if there was another
world, it existed only by reflection through the
eyes of George, and Magda, Evelyn, Martin,
Rodney, and Peter. She concealed beneath her
placid eyes and gentle smile an attitude towards
her husband and children that combined some of
the qualities of an early Christian martyr with
those of a Bengal tigress towards its cubs. She
was always alert, watchful, intuitive, and blindly
self-effacing.

In the evenings, or when the weather was bad,
they would all foregather in Peter's studio,
where there was a baby-grand. And there they
would either play outrageous games or listen to

16 THE QUERRILS

good music. Magda played the piano well and
was something of a musician, and Peter was no
mean executant on the 'cello. Martin played the
violin with sufficient technique of a rather
scrambling sort to justify the idea of trios. And
occasionally Joan Lemaire would sing German
lieder in a rigid soprano. Under the spell of the
most mysterious and intriguing of the muses, the
Querril family would cluster in little groups.
And so harmonious, so reposeful, so inarticulate,
would they appear, that they themselves re-
sembled the strings of some old instrument as
yet unplayed.

CHAPTER II

THE RAINBOW

IT was a Saturday afternoon in June. Mr.
Querril, usually the most sociable of men,
nipped out of the train at Chessilton Heath sta-
tion and darted across the platform. With the
casual nod of the well-known "season" holder
to the ticket collector, he made for the path by
the side of the station without looking round.
His short sight was on occasions a great asset to
him when he wanted to avoid people, and on this
day he was particularly anxious to be alone for
the twenty minutes' walk to the house. When
faced with any disturbing problem he had great
faith in those old panaceas — solitude and exer-
cise.

His old blue coat bulged with periodicals and
rolls of manuscript, whilst his long arms and
bony fingers clutched further books, and rolls,
and brown-paper parcels. The shabby gray felt
cap was pulled down over his eyess, and one
trouser was turned up at the bottom and the
other not. It was one of his most successful

18 THE QUERRILS

attempts to pose as a vagabond. It was, indeed,
only the eyes which betrayed him, and from them
emanated a spirit not only of a great kindliness
and gentleness but a certain distress and appre-
hension.

He hurried along until he arrived at the second
field on the short cut across Mr. Catteral's farm,
and then he dumped all his parcels on the ground
and sat on the stile and lighted his pipe. It was
very hot, and bees hummed in the young clover.
Overhead an invisible lark was singing entranc-
ingly. It was very delightful after town. Very
delightful and pleasant to get away from the
great city, where he was afraid things were not
always like this ; where there was suffering, dis-
honesty, malice — just to step out here so simply,
and feel the fresh air, and to see the green fields
and the gray distances, to walk up the lane to
the house, and then to be greeted by love and
laughter; to wash and change into flannels, and
then to sit about among the roses or under the
pergola, and to watch the children play tennis;
to talk to his friends and discuss the latest books,
to hear the merry quips and bantering of young
people all dressed in white, with healthy, glowing
faces.

The philosophic processes which had gone to
the making of Mr, QuerriPs "sanctuary" in

THE RAINBOW 18

those early years of the twentieth century had
followed upon certain fluid and not unpopular
lines. Mr. Querril considered himself an in-
tensely modern man,aliye „$sl every sociaLand

religious development, and quite openminded*
The only son of well-to-do parents who lavished
upon him every care, and left him well educated
on conventional Anglican lines, and well pro-
vided for ; the inheritor of a solid and interesting
business ; something of a dreamer, with a passion
for things intellectual for their own sake, never
swayed by any impulse that he could not control,
child-like in his affections and beliefs, he slipped
into the toga of this pleasant family life almost
imperceptibly to himself. It seemed a perfectly
natural costume to him, and anything else was
almost unthinkable. Poverty, misery, and vice
distressed him unspeakably, and he had long ago
decided that the problems concerning them were
unsolyable. He treated the human race as he
treated his own family — a body to be controlled
t>y suggestion and " atmosphere."

In religion he called himself a Rationalist, and
none of the children had had any religious train-
ing, but it was open to them if they cared to
take it. They had been educated partly by a
sequence of governesses and bland tutors, and
partly at Benningdales' which, as you know, is a

20 THE QUERRILS

famous school for coeducation and modern jdeaa
In politics he compromised with various waver-
ing tendencies, and voted Liberal. The children
at this time had taken little interest in politics,
with the exception of Rodney, who was ragged by
the others on account of his Fabian tendencies.
We say " ragged " advisedly, because it was a
traditiqnj&f Jhe family to discuss flippantly the
things that mattered, and seriously th§ , things
that didn't matter. The question of the color
of a piece of embroidery for Evelyn's djibbah
would lead almost to a white-hot feud, but any
problem which concerned fundamental emotions
was either ignored or passed over facetiously.
The reason of this was obvious. Somebody's
feelings might be hurt

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Querril had ever put any
restraints upon the children at all. Neither had
they sought to instil into them any concrete con-
ception of their place or purpose in life. During
the years of adolescence they had watched them
at times with anxiety and made attempts to
codrdinate their moral and mental outlook.
But this was done more by example and sug-
gestion than by instruction. They relied an
atmosphere. And indeed the atmosphere of the
Querrils might have made a sinner into a saint.
During this period the boys called their father

THE RAINBOW 21

"George," but he told them nothing. During
this period the girls called their mother
" darling/' and she replied, " My darling Magda,"
and "My darling Evie," and she kissed them
good night.

And it had all been justified. They were
splendid children. They had passed the most
dangerous period. Mr. Querril had never
thought or contended that these things didn't
matter. What he contended to himself was that
they mattered little, so long as children lived up
to a moral code, that they were healthy, clean-
minded and unselfish. And all his children
were this.

Moreover, they were clever, on the threshold
of great things. The boys would do better than
he had done. This modern education was broad-
ening every one. How much freer and happier
this young generation was than his own had
been ! They seemed to get about more, to under-
stand more. There was that settlement where
the boys worked. • . .

And then Mr. Querril felt again that little
stab of disquiet which had marred this pleasant
day. He looked down at his parcels and sucked
the stem of his pipe. The trouble had been this :

22 THE QUEBBIL8

Rodney was the moving spirit at the Settle-
ment. It was an undertaking he took very seri-
ously; consequently it was very little discussed
at home. The boys would sometimes give an
amusing description of some old lady who came
there, or an imitation of the way the people
talked. Mr. Querril did not really know what
their activities amounted to, except that they
worked amongst the poor on the river-side at
Hammersmith, and each boy gave up so much
of his time. The previous summer Rodney had
rescued a youth named Stallard, when his
father, a widower, had been sent to prison for
seven years for forgery. They had found him
work in Mr. QuerriTs office. He was a quiet,
sallow-faced boy, rather pink round the eyes.
He showed quickness and adaptability. But at
the end of three months he was caught stealing a
postal order for twenty-four shillings, from Mr.
QuerriPs drawer. The owner was much dis-
tressed. He lectured the boy in halting sen-
tences, expressing his sorrow, feverishly u sug-
gesting " that he would be wiser and happier
not to do such things, and then sent him back
to his work. Six weeks after that he stole the
pocket-book of Mr. John Prisby, the head clerk,
and was again detected. There was very nearly
a climax over that, as Mr. Querril was not there

THE RAINBOW 23

at the time, and Mr. Frisby was all in favor of
giving the boy in charge. However, excited con-
versations over the telephone ended in Master
Stallard being once more forgiven.

Bnt that morning things had reached a definite
pass. A valuable old book on Byzantine archi-
tecture, which had been missing for some weeks,
had been found by a police inspector in a second-
hand shop in Notting Hill, and the bookseller
had given a description of the lad who sold it to
him which tallied identically with that of young
Stallard. It was perhaps characteristic of Mr.
Querril that, on listening to the details from the
police inspector, a minor fact impressed him
more potently than the major fact. The book-
seller had given the lad fifteen shillings for it.
Now, Mr. Querril had paid twenty-seven pounds
for that volume many years ago, and it would be
worth more now. The bookseller was also not
an honest man. But he was protected by a code;
the boy had no protection. It was very puzzling
and distracting. The police inspector was
greedy for a conviction, and Mr. Querril was in
a position he hated — that of having to make up
his mind. He humm'd and ha'd. His son would
have to be consulted (Martin never went up to
the office on Saturdays). And during these
moments of equivocation there arose in Mr.

24 THE QUERRILS

Querril an antipathy to the police inspector's
face. It flashed through his mind that he had
observed the same expression on the face of Perl-
mutter when watching a rabbit hole. Tolerable
in a dog, but disgusting in a man.

" I could forgive anything except cruelty," he
had remarked suddenly, with no relevance to the
case in hand that the inspector could see.

No definite decision had been arrived at, and
Mr. Querril bad promised to deal with it during
the ensuing week. He made his usual Saturday
purchases of chocolates, knick-knacks and maga-
zines, and caught his customary train.

C>, in

And now he sat, a helpless figure amidst his
problems and his parcels. What could one do
for a boy like young Stallard? What earthly
purpose would it serve to send him to prison or
to a reformatory? With such a hereditary taint,
what chance had the wretched boy? What
would Rodney think? It seemed somehow un-
grateful and inept on his own part not to have
made more of the boy that Rodney had sent him.

He picked up a parcel of stuffed dates — for
which Evelyn and Peter had a great fondness —
and the " Fortnightly Review," and tucked them

THE RAINBOW 25

under his arm with the rest. Then he continued
his walk. A breezy neighbor passed him, clatter-
ing a bag of golf clubs. '

" Hullo, Querril ! " he called out.

Mr. Querril had not observed him. He turned
and pressed the other's arm, and muttered :

" My dear good fellow ! "

In the process he dropped the box of stuffed
dates. He groped for them and murmured some-
thing about the heat. He seemed disinclined to
pursue the conversation to any profounder
depths, and went on his way.

He walked quietly up the gravel drive to the
house, and let himself in. He could hear
laughter in the garden, and Magda's voice calling
out:

"Forty-fifteen. Now, Roddies, do serve de-
cently."

He put down his parcels and went up to the
bedroom and shut the door. Then he tiptoed
across the room and peeped out at the window.
Yes, they were all there. Rodney and Magda
and the two Lemaire girls were playing tennis.
His wife was sitting in her cane chair, sewing
and talking to Mrs. Lemaire and a very stout
man. Martin was lying fiat on his back, looking
up through the mulberry tree and chewing a
straw. Peter was perched on the bank at the

26 THE QUERRILS

end of the lawn, sketching in a diminutive
sketch-book. Potash was sleeping tranquilly in
an apparently perilous position. He was tucked
right underneath the deck chair of the fat man.
The shade there was undoubtedly effective, but
the flimsy nature of its structure appeared
totally inadequate to support the immense pro-
portions of the sitter. If anything happened, it
seemed horrible to think what might be the fate
of the faithful Potash.

It is further characteristic of Mr. Querril that
in that moment, still smarting under the stress
of his morning's experience, he enjoyed a little
glow of satisfaction in realizing that the man was
Decimus Postern. A love of celebrities was one
of the little feathered vanities in the family
quiver. Decimus Postern was a very old friend
of the family, but Mr. Querril could never get
over the pleasurable sound of the phrase, " My
friend Decimus Postern." And Decimus at that
time was by no means a figure to be overlooked
or ignored. Creatures other than Potash were
pleased to bask in his shadow. He was a celeb-
rity in the world of letters, without having ever
accomplished any work which justified a unique

THE RAINBOW 27

position. He had attained it rather by weight
qf personality than by any original, creative
ability. He was one of those people who take
stage center by sheer bnlk. Of vast dimensions,
with a babyish face and large protruding eyes
which looked out indulgently on the passing
phenomena of existence, he adapted his person
adroitly to an eighteen-sixty effect — with volu-
minous peg-top trousers, an embroidered waist-
coat hanging in pendulous lines over his protrud-
ing front, a heavy black stock bound many times
around a Gladstonian collar, and a tortoise-shell
monocle in his left eye. His dark curly gray
hair was going thin at the top, and when he
laughed in his high tenor the great bags of flesh
on his cheeks and neck shook and glowed, and
the all-too-eager tears started from his eyes and
added to the general humidity of his appearance.
There was about him something attractively fan-
tastic, as though some ironic alchemist among
the gods had invented a thing that was neither
spirit nor matter, but an adventitious composite
of the two, retaining all the most nebulous quali-
ties of the one with the most assertive, porno-
graphic characteristics of the other.

At meal times he would eat voraciously, indis-
criminately, but without any apparent sensual
enjoyment; and during and between the mouth-

28 THE QUERRILS

fills quiver in his light tones of the beauty of
Celtic twilight poetry, the curse of the Renais-
sance, the imagery of Persian sagas. Little
whimsies and epigrams fell from his lips like
leaves from an autumn oak, not in themselves of
particular point or significance but transcended
by the ignis fatuus of his personality. Opinions
and epigrams were attributed to him for which
he was frequently not responsible. One had only
to know Decimus Postern to realize how many
of the ancient myths originated.

Some one once asked Peter what he thought of
him, and he replied: "He's too moist."

And there was more in this than its purely
material application. Decimus was fluid. He
flowed on and on. He was not so much a crea-
tive artist as a medium for mental liquid.
Thoughts, ideas, and cunning arrangements of
words poured through him. Words, words,
words. He loved the play of them, the inter-
play, their fecundity, the power they had of
eternally suggesting new and pregnant combi-
nations. His works consisted mostly of anthol-
ogies, and little volumes founded on some phase
of life suggested by the works of a long-forgotten
poet or romanticist Among the irreverent of
Fleet Street he was known as a "paste-and-
scissors " artist It was rumored that in those

THE RAINBOW 29

comfortable offices of his on Adelphi Terrace lie
employed a small staff of bright young men, who
spent their lives excavating and card-indexing.
He certainly produced a goodly number of
volumes for one who spent so much time sitting
in the Querrils' garden, or taking the chair at
interminable dinners. He lived a capacious
bachelor's life in an old house that had been
modernized by Lutyens, not a hundred yards
from the Quernls', at Chessilton Heath. The
interior was a combination of Versailles and an
old Somerset farmhouse. It was filled with
beautiful things often inappropriately placed.
He lived, attended by an octogenarian house-
keeper who was toothless, a pompous, middle-
aged butler with the air of a permanent official,
and a fugitive staff of odd cooks and housemaids.
He entertained considerably and was enormously
popular. And when everything had been given
and everything taken away from the character
of Decimus Postern, it was generally agreed that
he was a very lovable person.

When Mr. Querril had donned a white alpaca
coat, and been received into the family group
with the usual acclamations, and been kissed by

30 THE QUERBILS

Ms wife, and given a chair by Evelyn, and dis-
turbed Potash, the tennis set proceeded. The
reedy voice of Decimus engaged in a bantering
argument with Mrs. Lemaire acted as a kind of
soporific. How different this all seemed to Lon-
don, where there was sometimes u suffering, dis-
honesty, malice " ! It would be difficult to talk
to Rodney about young Stallard. It would have
to be done, but he would bide his time. . . .

" Nature, dear lady," Postern was saying.
"What greater bore is there than Nature?
Fancy taking millions of years to evolve a
turnip! It was not till, as a last desperate
resource, she started making men and women
that she began to turn out anything interesting
at all. And even then the interest usually
centers round the efforts of men and women to
defy Nature, than with the humdrum efforts of
Nature herself. Imagine the world without art,
without cathedrals, without drama, without
charity, or the fine frenzy to die for an ideal, and
you have Nature — utterly exposed. She has
certain silly notions about hygiene and physical
attraction, but absolutely no discrimination
between realism and idealism."
And then the musical voice of Mrs. Lemaire :
"O-oh, you! You do talk such ru-beesh!
Are not men and vimen nature? "

THE BAINBOW 31

Mr. Querril smiled. An adorable woman, Mrs.
Lemaire; clever too. Dear old Decimus, how
amusing he was! Quite insincere, of course.
At least, generally so. But with a heart of gold.
Oh, well played, Magda ! A fine shot ! What is
Perlmutter doing among those young cabbages?
Dear me! a lot of dead shoots among the roses
already. To-morrow morning he must come out
with the scissors and basket. . . .

Mr. Querril is destined to be a listener. Tea
is brought out on a silver tray, and placed on an
Indian collapsible stand of sandalwood. The
tennis is finished. Evelyn is rolling Peter down
the bank because she discovers that he has
already found the stuffed dates and has eaten
most of them. He is yelling out: "Help!
Murder ! Fire ! Thieves ! " The other boys
have put on blazers and scarfs and are handing
round cakes. Potash is very much awake, and
Perlmutter has made a belated appearance. And
over the tea-cups they laugh and chat, and the
time-honored jest of some one accusing Mr.
Querril of flirting with Mrs. Lemaire is met by
his reply, which surprises himself more than any
one:

"Well, why should I be the only one left
out? "

He is in good humor after that, and they break

32 THE QUERBILS

up into little groups. Decimus, Rodney, him-
self, drift upstairs to see a new painting of
Peter's, and there he hears another discussion,
somewhat illuminating. It comes about through
Peter having had the audacity to paint a rainjbow
(a very faint rainbow touching a distant hill).
And Decimus remarks:

" To be candid, I never can admire a rainbow.
A silly alchemist's trick swung across the sky
as though some one had been tampering with
nature. A landscape become divorced from all
sensibility. One instinctively wonders how it 's
done."

" There are rainbows and rainbows," mutters
Peter.

" That 9 s just it," adds Rodney. " A rainbow
looks best, in my opinion, above a city. It wants
a factory or a railway junction, somewhere where
there 's a lot of grime and dirt. The chimneys
might have had something to do with the manu-
facture of it. In any case it strikes a grotesque
note, and a city is no good without the grotesque
to help it. A mass of gray uniformity, and then
little discords and vivid reflections in unexpected
places."

" Can any one tell me why it always looks so
sentimental above a cathedral or a church?"
asks Martin, who has just joined them.

THE RAINBOW 33

" It was God's promise/' says Peter, and they
all laugh, giving Decimus the opportunity of
cutting in with :

*As a matter of fact, it looks well above a
city because a city is itself grotesque. One can't
look at a herd of people living together under
grotesque conditions without wondering how
that '8 done."

"It's the rainbow which explains how it's
done," continues Eodney. " The white light of
the sun appears inexplicable, and then the rain-
bow comes dancing through a prism formed by
the clouds and shows you exactly how the white
light is composed. And it's the same with a
people. The herd appears inexplicable, but
When you look at it through a prism you find it 's
composed of green, blue, violet, orange, and
yellow individuals."

" My dear fellow, tell me how you look at a
herd through a prism."

" Oh, there are all sorts of prisms. Come down
to our settlement one day, Dess, and we '11 show
you some."

Peter and Martin laugh, and the large man
breathes heavily. Peter digs his thumb into his
ribs, exclaiming :

"I'd love to see Dess at the Settlement!
Fancy him sympathizing with Mrs. Stilling and

34 THE QUEKRILS

her ailments! or trying to persuade old Ben \
Cotton not to throw flat-irons at his wife on ]
Saturday evenings ! "

" Or," echoes Martin, " taking a dozen bundles
of firewood under his arm to the Troons ! "

(Who on earth are all these people? ... So
this is what my boys do. ... )

But Decimus is shaking his fat forefinger.

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute! This is
getting too involved. Is the white light of the
sun any better because I see it explained in a
rainbow? or the herd because I — am disgusted
with it in detail ? "

" Don't be flippant, Dess. It 's a question of
the ultimate good."

"Very well, then; I contend that I'm doing
more good by writing good verse, or a critique
of a bad novel, than by carrying bundles of wood
to a thriftless charwoman."

" But suppose her thriftlessness, as you call it,
were due to conditions for which we are all
responsible? What would you do? "

" Leave her alone."

" And in the meantime — ? "

"In the meantime, people are being born.
They're eating, drinking, dying, making love,
making fools of themselves; but, broadly speak-
ing — making progress."

THE RAINBOW 35

* Ajk<\ why are they making progress? Be-
'■i*uss* some one at some time has not let them
aloufc. Because people whom you despise as
ir.verterers hare butted in, made themselves un-
popular, aud got their way. Everybody who has
done Siiy thing, from Jesus Christ to Lloyd
George, has been described as a busybody and a
meddler at some time. People don't want to be
reformed. They hate it. The rich don't want to
be taxed in the interests of the poor. There
would n't be any taxation of this sort at all if
certain fanatics had n't taken the matter up and
got themselves intensely disliked. At the present
time we are enjoying the advantages of laws,
institutions, and privileges to gain which hun-
dreds of meddlers and interferers have been
stoned."

(Interfere! Yes . . . but how? What about
the boy Stallard?)

Decimus is preparing an avalanche to destroy
this plausible philosophy, when Magda enters the
room. She is wearing an old green shawl. She
puts her arm round her father's shoulders, and
says:

" Are you boys coming? We 're going for a
stroll on the heath."

" Gracious lady," exclaims Decimus, u we know
Why you wear that shawl. It is not because a

36 THE QUERRILS

warm summer's evening justifies it, but because
it makes you appear adorable."

" Really ! Do I need a shawl for that? "

"Heavens, forgive me! What a suggestion!
And now please tell us. Where does a rainbow
look best? "

It is necessary for Magda to walk to the win-
dow, to torture this large creature with her
pensive beauty, before she replies :

" Out on the open heath."

CHAPTER III

SLEEPY BYES WITH GOBYBANTIC DEPTHS

THE problem of "interference" exercised
the mind of Mr. Querril on Sunday morn-
ing when he was pruning the roses. Was Rod-
ney right? It was a very big question. He
inherited a faith in liberty, freedom, "self-
determination," leaving people alone. Be had
never interfered. And yet — what was he doing
now? If he did n't interfere with the roses they
would die, or in any case be very poor specimens.
Who were the Troons? He had heard the boys
refer to the Troons on several occasions. He
believed that Mr. Troon was a dreadful man, a
kind of hooligan. Did Rodney interfere with
him? And there was a daughter. She seemed
to cause considerable discussion. The boys said
she was beautiful. It is more dangerous to inter-
fere with a beautiful girl than with a hooligan
father. Had Rodney done any good by inter-
fering with young Stallard ? It was so ingrained

38 THE QUEREILS

in Mr. Querril to believe in every one, to trust
every one, and most especially his children, that
he would feel too sensitive even to discuss such
matters. Every one had to work out his own
salvation. His children could do no wrong.
Experience was the racial cathartic. That this
coming generation was going to be a generation
of interferers, was quite evident. Perhaps they
were right, perhaps they were wrong. His chil-
dren called him George, to try to make him one
of them ; to make him feel younger than he was.
It was an engaging piece of flattery, but quite
unconvincing. A father can never be entirely
intimate with his children. There must always
be that frozen multitude of years between them, a
barrier of solidified experiences. But these
young people who were coming up — men and
women, especially women — they were so much
more articulate than they had been in his day.
It was as though a dumb man, who had spent his
life thinking, had suddenly found his voice. It
was interesting for him to watch and listen —
yes, that was all he could do now, listen.

" Aristotle's ' political animal/ " thought Mr.
Querril, " has been stodged for so long on a diet
of materialism and Bourbonism that the result
has produced a kind of spiritual flatulence. "
Mr. Querril smiled. He was intensely pleased

SLEEPY EYES 39

with himself for thinking of this phrase. It was
not one he could repeat to the family. It was n't
quite nice. But it was very pleasant to wander
round the garden on Sunday morning, with his
pipe and scissors, before the family were up.
(They came down at most outrageous hours, com-
mencing with Magda about ten and ending up
with Peter about twelve-thirty.) The garden
was never so beautiful as in the early morning.
The leaves glittered with little pearls of dew,
and the birds were so busy, and pleasant and
beautiful thoughts came to one. And his wife
(they always breakfasted together at half -past
eight) would come out for a few moments and
rest her hand on his forearm, and say :

" You 're not getting your feet wet, are you,
dear? " or, " Do you know whether Carters' has
sent those delphinium seeds, my love? "

And occasionally Ptolemy the Second would
amble nonchalantly across the lawn.

Ptolemy the Second was a large, black, half-
Persian cat. Alone among the whole of "the
Querril set," he lived a thoroughly detached, pre-
occupied existence. Unsociable, insolently beau-
tiful, an egoist from the end of his vibrant tail to

40 THE QUERRILS

the tip of his claws, he showed a supreme indif-
ference to men or beasts. The whole of the
Querril family and their attendants might van-
ish in the night, and he would not turn one
of his glossy hairs, provided that other hands
placed bowls of milk and rich and succulent
foods in convenient places at regular intervals.
He mixed very little with the family ; indeed, he
preferred the kitchen quarters, where there was
greater heat, and also a generously built cook,
who had a reasonable sense of her responsibilities
to his royal demands. And she did not fuss.
Ptolemy the Second detested fuss. He gave the
impression that he selected the servants' quarter
not for democratic reasons but because he con-
sidered that the Querrils were no better than
their servants. They were a fussy, bourgeois
crowd, and Ptolemy was an aristocrat of aristo-
crats, a snob of snobs. He toiled not, neither did
he mouse. He did absolutely nothing. And yet
he knew that, so irresistible was his beauty, so
sure his sense of natural superiority, that nothing
could be denied him.

Sometimes he would go and sit on the low
stone parapet under the pergola, his large chest
stuck out, his eyes shut, and his magnificent
mustaches glistening in the sun. At such times,
Magda or Evelyn, utterly seduced by his beauty,

SLEEPY EYES 41

would throw their arms round his neck, and,
burying their faces in his soft fur, exclaim :

" Oh, you beautiful darling ! "

Just a little of this he would tolerate, courte-
ously but unresponsively. A little more, and he
would put back his ears and draw away, with an
expression which plainly said :

" Really you know ! We Ptolemies, who ruled
in Egypt — or was it Persia? — centuries before
this wretched island was discovered — we don't
do that sort of thing ! "

If the matter was carried any further after
that, he would simply spring gracefully out of
sight. His contempt for the dogs was almost
theatrical. It was overdone. He never even
glanced at them. He despised the way they were
always working themselves up into a state of
nervous excitement over the actions of these ri-
diculous, two-legged creatures. Perlmutter, evi-
dently profiting by some early and misguided
experience, always gave Ptolemy a very wide
berth, but Potash would occasionally, in sheer
excess of vitality, perform some clownish antic.
Ptolemy would treat the inanity with the con-
tempt it deserved ( still not even deigning to look
at him ) , but if by any mischance he should carry
the thing to the extent of actual contact, there
would be a sudden and terrible change come over

42 THE QUERRILS

the scene. This soft and seductive lump of
tranquillity would in a flash appear a vast black
ball, glittering with teeth, claws, and green
lightning. Through the menacing turmoil would
come a sound like a sneeze, or the kiss of some
portentous doom. The thing was beyond
Potadh. He was a plain dog, used to straight
fighting, and he had no use for the black arts of
Egypt. He simply bolted.

Curiously enough, the only member of the
family for whom Ptolemy showed the slightest
predilection was Mr. Querril himself. It was
probably because he never attempted to stroke
him. He used to talk to Ptolemy, and ask his
opinion about gardening, and Ptolemy would
come quite near and blink at him and seem to
say:

" You 're not a bad old chap. Rather queer,
perhaps, but you don't fuss or interfere.
There 's just a touch of the East about you — not
very much, but enough to make you less intoler-
able than the others."

And Mr. Querril would adjust his glasses, and
say:

" Dear me, Ptolemy, what are we to do about
this green-fly? We tried Killall last year, but it
was quite useless."

And the yellow eyes of Ptolemy would narrow

SLEEPY EYES 43

to a thin slit. He would seem to be looking into
space, as though the only answer to such a use-
less question could be :

" In the East we leave things alone."

Ill

Tennis went on intermittently all day on Sun-
day. And in the afternoon promiscuous people
dropped in, some to play and others to talk. It
was just before lunch that Mr. Querril keyed
himself up to tell Rodney about young Stallard.
The interview was less distressing than he antic-
ipated. His second son took the matter philo-
sophically. They were in the nursery garden,
whither Mr. Querril had lured him, for the ex-
pressed purpose of devising a more satisfactory
protection for strawberries than old tennis nets
full of holes.

" I 'm awfully sorry," Eodney said. " I hope
it is n't bothering you, Father."

(When the boys called him " Father," it meant
that both sides were reaching that embarrassing
stage of self -consciousness when they would be
glad to escape from each other. )

"For God's sake don't give him in charge,"
he added, " or fire him. If you can manage to
keep him going for a week . . . we'll see what
we can do. ... I should think a couple of posts

44 THE QUERRILS

here, with some of that wire netting that 's in the
tool-shed. We could cut out a lot of this stuff
then. What do you think? "

Nothing more was said to Mr. Querril about
the matter, but Rodney called Martin and Peter
into his bedroom, and said :

"Blast that young Stallard! He's broken
out again."

And Martin said: "I knew he would. It's
inevitable. You 've only got to look at his face.
He '11 have to go to a home."

" A home ! " echoed Rodney, mournfully.
" The very word is a travesty. Do you know
what those homes are like? They're places
where boys are encouraged to think that they 're
criminals. A kind of clearing-house for hell."

" We must find a decent home."

" I wish we knew of one. By the way, Pedro,
did that girl, Emma Troon, come to the flat on
Friday?"

Peter laughed lightly.

" Yes. What is she? She does n't look Eng-
lish."

"No, it's rather rum. Both her parents are
hopelessly English, her mother of the whining,
charlady type, and her father a savage, an ex-
seaman and stone-mason, always fighting, drink-
ing, and throwing furniture about."

SLEEPY EYES 45

Martin laughed and seized Rodney by the la-
pels of the coat.

"My dear fellow," he said, "yon don't mean
to tell me yon trusted Peter to be alone in the
Pig-sty when Emma Troon called ! "

" I know it was madness, but I not only
trusted him but I deputed him to engage her to
go there in the mornings to keep the place de-
cent."

The Pig-sty was a tiny flat owned by the Quer-
rils in Westminster. It consisted of four small
rooms and a kitchen. There was a double bed
in one room, a single in another room, and a
couch in the sitting-room. It was used by vari-
ous members of the family on odd occasions when
they spent a night in town. There were no serv-
ants there, but occasionally a woman was re-
quisitioned to clean it up. It was in a dingy
side-street, and the flat was always in a muddle.
Hence its title.

" Well, this is a nice scandal," continued Mar-
tin. " I suppose he '11 always be popping in
there now when he 's up at the Slade."

"Emma Troon is wonderful," said Peter,
solemnly. " She has sleepy eyes with coryban-
tic depths. There's some old ghost in her
ancestry — "

"Oh, hell!" cried Martin. "Let's murder

46 THE QUERRILS

him. Corybantic grandmothers! I'll teach
him ! " And Martin jerked Peter over back-
wards upon Rodney's bed, and proceeded to
smother him with a pillow.

Any reference to the erotic passion was always
treated by these brothers with the lightest of rail-
lery. There was a point beyond which one could
not go. It jarred the family fastidiousness.
Love was inherently the most wonderful thing in
life. In the Querril atmosphere there was no
place for the counterfeit presentment. Innu-
merable young men made love to Magda, and
they found the experience maddening. The
Querrils were so blindly happy in their unity
that it never seemed to occur to them that two
young people might like to be left alone. They
even went out for walks in droves. And in the
house and garden there was never any oppor-
tunity. Magda was as inaccessible as a queen
bee surrounded by the hive. Martin had had va-
rious moon-calf experiences of a transient na-
ture. Rodney dreamed of love as of some envel-
oping solution of all mysteries, to which he
would consecrate his life. And Peter? No one
knew yet quite about Peter. He was barely
twenty, and was known as the philosopher of the
family. No doubt in God's good time the thing
would come to him.

SLEEPY EYES 47

The Querrils always had a cold supper on
Sunday evenings and waited on themselves. It
was an understood thing among their friends
that the family kept open house on that occasion.
Any one was welcome, provided they were pre-
pared to be riotous, and to help themselves to
cold chicken or beef from the sideboard.

Mrs. Lemaire appeared with a nephew, a
young naval lieutenant, a good-looking boy who
was entirely successful in adding to the general
din. There was also a girl friend of Evelyn's
named Alma Meteyard, with a schoolboy brother.
The only unsympathetic note was the presence of
Mr. Stride. The mere fact that they called him
"Mister" showed that he was not one of the
inner circle. He was a sallow, mournful indi-
vidual, who had lived for years in East Africa
and there had contracted some incurable disease.
Mr. Querril invited him out of pity. His life
appeared to be one eternal protest. He talked
lugubriously all through the supper to Mr. Quer-
ril about the ways that rural committees abused
their rights, about the ignorance and want of pa-
triotism of the lower classes, about the folly and
futility of the way everything was conducted in
the country, the ineptitude of the government, the

48 THE QUERRILS

apathy of the church, the viciousness of society.
He appeared quite undisturbed by the general
hubbub, but occasionally his eye would wander
to the other — the noisy — end of the table, and
he would mumble :

"M' — m' — yes. I like to see youth on the
wing."

No one quite knew what he meant by that, but
he stated it as though he were tabulating one of
the minor deficiencies of his own mentality.

His jaws had an unfortunae habit of clicking
when he masticated his food, and in a pause Eve-
lyn asked quite innocently what that clicking
noise was. The laughter which greeted some
trivial jest of Peter's immediately after must
have appeared extravagant, both as regards vol-
ume and period of duration. But Mr. Stride
seemed quite oblivious.

After supper they adjourned to the drawing-
room, and played a ridiculous card game called
" Watch Billy," which occasioned more noise and
laughter. Mr. Querril took Mr. Stride into the
library and endured a further dose of ominous
forebodings of the future of South Africa.
Then, after a time, he took his departure, and the
rest went up to Peter's studio, and Peter, Magda,
and Annette played a Brahms trio.

SLEEPY EYES 49

Mr. Querril sat back in his easy-chair and
listened. He was not very musical, but he loved
to hear the children play. His mind worked in
pleasant grooves under the spell of musical pro-
gressions. Little images danced before his mind,
and vanished.

The room was in that alluring half-light, with
the orange lamp-shade standing out boldly
against the topaz of the evening sky ; and the in-
tent faces of the players, and the listeners
grouped haphazard along the wall, appeared ro-
mantic. It was a painter's effect. Broad
masses of simple tone and vivid notes of color.
Moving and mysterious, like the music of
Brahms himself. Melody, and behind it all life
moving towards certain tremendous ends. . . .
He observed Magda swaying very gently on the
piano-stool, her whole body and face expressing
the rhythm.

"A shade faster, darling," she whispered to
Peter once, for Peter was always inclined to
drag. And he frowned above his bow, and drew
forth deep and mysterious passages.

" He 's a good-looking boy," thought Mr. Quer-
ril, and something stirred within him, a kind of
religious impulse, as though he desired to give
praise to that Power that had given him a son

50 THE QUERRILS

like that, a being with an indestructible soul,
possessing powers and qualities beyond the com-
prehension of a father.

The Sanctuary ! ... It was all very beautiful.
The troubles of the preceding day were quite for-
gotten, the shadow of that existence where there
was suffering, dishonesty, malice, disappeared in
this gentle light. The mystery of music was ab-
sorbing. One observed the compass of a scale,
and then the thing got beyond one. Man was
finite, but linked indissolubly to infinite poten-
tialities. The keyboard expanded, revealed un-
dreamt-of harmonies, only one became conscious
that they had been there all the time, dormant.
Man was like that, a keyboard on the outside, a
god within. . . .

The usual discussion followed. Magda, her
face flushed and excited, a strand of her beauti-
ful hair breaking free upon her cheek, exclaim-
ing: "Annette darling, don't you think you
played this part a bit too straight? Peter dear,
why will you always come in half a bar late here?
Let's play this bit again, from the top of the
page."

It was just before bedtime that Peter slipped
out into the garden alone. He strolled through

SLEEPY EYES 51

the pergola and came out on to the grass slope
beyond the flower garden. The moon looked
enormous above the sleeping heath. He sighed.

" How perfectly ridiculous it is ! " he thought,
after a while.

He threw away the end of a cigarette and
leaned over the back of a wooden seat. Peter
was barely twenty, an age when the emotions are
straining at the leash. A cricket beneath the
hedge had heaps to tell him. The heath looked
lyrical in the silver light, like a Corot.

" But the moon is too big," he thought incon-
sequently. "Corot would never have painted
such a big moon as that."

Then he laughed, and a phrase from the slow
movement of the Brahms trio ran through his
mind. At twenty one is avid to ring the changes
of these newly found senses. It is all so sur-
prising. Things are always darting into one
and out of one, long before one has time to think
about them. And when they have gone they
leave some nerve quivering with a strain of
sweetness or bitterness, as the case may be, but
always the sense that they have never occurred
to any one else in quite the same way.

And Peter, of course, was a philosopher. He
was the wise man of the family. He was preemi-
nently a Querril, but he lived more inside him-

52 THE QUERRILS

sell He felt first and thought afterwards, and
then turned his reflections over in his wise old
head and examined them at leisure. He sat in
judgment on them, and rendered them into epi-
grams, or masses of paint, or phrases on the
'cello. A fellow-philosopher had once said to
him:

" I can only paint landscape that is haunted
by the ghosts of dead lovers."

This had seemed to him ridiculous at first, but
mature reflection told him it was right. It was
another way of saying that a painting must be
subjective, the happy hunting-ground of one's
own emotions, a lyrical presentment of a place
where people, who could love as he loved, had
passed.

And it recurred to him to-night with singular
force. He kept blinking at the heath and repeat-
ing:

" It 'b too perfectly ridiculous ! "

The images of love were always with Peter.
He had been brought up on a diet of little else.
He had been enveloped, circumscribed, almost
smothered, with love from his cradle. He had
proposed to Annette when he was ten, and had
been solemnly accepted. Annette was the em-
bodiment of all that was beautiful and adorable
in the Querril circle, the nearest thing to his

SLEEPY EYES • 53

mother or Magda. Beautiful, companionable,
accessible, she appeared the solution of all de-
sires and heartaches. They bird-nested together,
read the same books, quarreled and kissed. The
stars could not have predestined a more desirable
communion.

And then, suddenly, this other thing? . . .

Swift, volcanic, coming from outside, a whirl-
wind of disturbing movements, fevered dreams,
questionings, and something bitter-sweet and
dangerous and entrancingly — inevitable. An
impetus that seemed to accelerate his vitality, to
make him a bigger and more commanding per-
sonality. ... As though nothing else really
mattered at all.

Two bats swung in circles above his head.

" If the boys had only known when they were
ragging me ! " he thought.

He could see her now as he first saw her one
day, two months ago, at the Settlement. She
had come in to fetch some medicine for her
mother. It was just the poise of her body which
attracted him first, the swing of her strong hips,
a certain languorousness of movement which
seemed to indicate a suppressed vitality. One

54 THE QUERRILS

felt that those limbs concealed the powers of
greater activity. Like a panther in a cage. He
noticed the shabby frock, and then the round,
plump cheeks, and the masses of black hair
tucked away beneath a small hat; and then, to
his confusion — " the sleepy eyes with corybantic
depths."

His first feeling was one of anger. That such
a beautiful creature should be a slum-child!
And then, when he spoke to her, he could not
properly control his voice. And she never took
her eyes from his, as she answered briefly, in low
tones that had a Southern tang, making the cock-
neyisms attractive.

He had seen her only twice since then till the
day when she came to the Pig-sty. It was Rod-
ney's idea that they should engage her to keep the
Pig-sty clean, and Peter used it more than any of
the others. He went to the Slade School three
days a week, and he kept most of his painting
materials at the Pig-sty, and occasionally had a
meal there.

Peter looked up at the moon, a puzzled expres-
sion puckering his philosopher's face. But the
moon gave him no help, except dimly to reflect a
vision of Emma Troon's face. He looked at the
clump of fruit-trees in the L^maires' garden
across the hedge, and among their dim branches

SLEEPY EYES 55

the eyes of Emma Troon watched him appeal-
ingly. The night appeared charged with an im-
mensity of hidden powers. And in some pe-
culiar way he felt proud of being in touch with
all these important forces. The large moon
seemed to be setting the scale in some fantastic
theater of activities, and his heart, beating rap-
idly, gave thanks that in all the endless dramas
being enacted upon its many stages the motif was
not always — philosophy !

He tried once more his dogged reiteration,
" It 's perfectly ridiculous ! " but his mind was
again busy with the memory of her visit to the
Pig-sty.

He remembered that, as she was reaching up
to a peg to hang up her hat and cloak, he had
noticed her small and battered boots, and he had
thought :

"How disgusting! I must get her some de-
cent boots."

Her presence produced in him an emotional
eddy, to cope with which he was utterly unin-
structed. It was something quite outside the
Querril curriculum. And through it all was a
streak of the intensest pity. His chivalry was
quickened. He felt that somehow Fate had side-
tracked this beautiful creature. There had been
some horrible muddle and misunderstanding.

56 THE QUERRILS

It could n't be right. When he saw her later in
the morning, kneeling down and scrubbing a
floor in the hall, he nearly cried out. When he
left, he said :

" I should n't bother to scrub the floors, Emma.
We — get a woman in to do that sometimes."

It sounded lame. He wanted to say so much
more. He could see her now, looking up at him
with her strained eyes, her breasts panting with
exertion. She had answered :

" All right, sir."

He had hovered by the door, and added :

" Don't bother to call me * sir,' Emma." She
had not answered, and he felt that he had be-
haved dismally.

On the following day he saw her again. To
his surprise she had on a new blouse and apron
and — mirabile dictu! — new boots. She looked
brighter and more cheerful. If not more com-
municative, she seemed in any case more re-
sponsive and watchfully alert to his presence, <aa
though in this little pocket-drama she did not
mean to play merely an objective part. Once
she brought him the patent carpet-sweeper, and
asked him if he would explain how to empty it.
Peter had not the faintest idea, but he fumbled
with the thing till he found out. And then he
became alarmingly conscious of her presence.

SLEEPY EYES 57

Her head almost touched his, and once a strand
of her hair flicked his cheek as they leaned to-
gether over the sweeper. Also he became aware
of some faint scent about her. It was not the
kind of scent that Magda and Evelyn occasion-
ally used, but a distinctive, lingering perfume
like the warmth of this summer evening among
the white flowers and the mysterious fruit-trees.
Just like this night

Some one was moving on the terrace by the
house. His father was coughing, and knocking
out his pipe against the wall. He could hear his
low voice talking to one of the boys, and then a
light frock appeared, and his mother's voice rang
out:

"Peter darling, are you there? . . . Cocoa!"

CHAPTER IV

THE INTBBFBBEE

"I
I
I

EMMA TEOON walked slowly along the
Queen's Road at Hammersmith, carrying
a string bag containing bread, matches, onions,
blacking, and potatoes. The roadway was con-
gested with pedestrians sauntering at the same
pace as herself. Barrows and stalls crowded
upon each other, whereat one might purchase
cat's-meat, vegetables, fried fish, old iron, second-
hand skirts and stockings, or brightly colored
sweets. The shops, frowning across the intrud- *
ing barrows, vied with each other in their mis-
cellaneous assortments of goods and garbage and
noise. At intervals, gaudily assertive public-
houses glittered uninvitingly. A maternal Gov- J
ernment had forbidden the taking of babies and
young children into them, so their accommodat-
ing owners had built little tiled and covered-in
passages, where the children might be left to
play in the dirt and the draft. They were on

THE INTERFERER 59

this morning crowded with perambulators and
anemic, undersized fragments of humanity strid-
ently querulous. At the corner of one street a
fat man with a goiter on his neck was trying to
sell a puzzle, and a man with no legs was
strapped into a wheeled chair and playing a con-
certina. The street was littered with cabbage
leaves and old newspapers. There was that eery
smell peculiar to certain slums of London, which
seems a concentrated odor of fish, beer, dirt, and
perspiration.

None of these things impressed Emma very
greatly. It was the atmosphere in which she
had spent her life. She observed it languor-
ously, as though conscious that, though she was
in it, shs was not of it. Perhaps, as Peter had
said, there was some " old ghost in her ancestry."
It was a boy at the Battenburg buildings (where
she lived with her father and stepmother) who
had first called her "The Watcher." It prob-
ably originated from her trick of standing on one
of the open stone landings and looking across the
iron railings at the river. She would stand
there for hours at a time, like a person wrecked
on an island and watching fdr a sail. Her large
dark eyes were always watching. She searched
the faces of every one she met, as though within
her was some brooding problem of which they

60 THE QUERRILS

might possess the master-key. She appeared
very young, but overdeveloped, in the Latin way.
Her movements were unconsciously picturesque,
and she had a genius for keeping herself clean
without encouragement, for making the most of
her poor clothes, and for placing some little
knickknack of color in the right place.

She watched the faces of every one, and most
particularly did she watch the faces of her step-
mother and of her father, and in this case she had
good cause to be watchful.

She watched her stepmother with a kind of
wondering contempt that so poor and spiritless
a thing should be. And she watched her father
with awe and terror, because she knew she had
to study his moods, and that in certain moods
he struck her, and then she had to be very watch-
ful indeed. When he came home from the wharf
in the evening, she never knew whether he would
be sullen, hilarious, or maudlin. But she knew
that in whatever mood he came, he would bring
with him the reeking atmosphere of the taproom.
His brain was sodden with drink. It seemed
almost incredible that they should still keep him
on at the wharf. It was probably because he
was so strong, and liked to demonstrate it. Jim
Troon could lift weights that no other man be-
tween Mortlake and Putney could touch. She

THE INTERFERER 61

had seen him lift great blocks of stone without
staggering. She admired him at such moments.
She had a tremendous admiration for strength.
She had been to cinemas occasionally. The hero
was always strong. He rode wild horses, leaped
from trains, killed people who thwarted him.
. . . Strength was dimly associated with the
elves of romance which danced at the back of
her life. Emma had no intention of continuing
this life forever.

But the evening was close, and she felt de-
pressed and weary. She walked across the as-
phalt court of Battenburg buildings, and up the
stone staircase. At the third landing she
stopped and looked out across the river. 'She
could hear the shrill cries of quarreling children
in the courts below. The river looked dull and
menacing, with the great factory chimneys
frowning ahead. A somewhat bloated sparrow,
with its feathers coming out, settled on the iron
railing and then fluttered away. Emma went
up another flight and entered a door numbered
664. The stepmother, in a canvas apron and a
cloth cap, snatched the string bag from her hand
and cried :

" Come on, for Gawd's sake ! Where yer
been? 'E '11 be in in 'arf an hour."

62 THE QUEREILS

She got a knife, and helped Mrs. Troon to peel
the onions, an operation which always made her
eyes water. Mrs. Troon continued upbraiding
her in little jerky sentences, and she did not
deign to reply. One remark only impressed it-
self on her mind :

"It's quite time you was out earnm' yer
livin\"

It had often struck Emma as remarkable that
her father had never insisted on this. On the
contrary, he seemed to hold some violent antip-
athy to it. Living as they did, from hand to
mouth, and frequently with nothing at all to
convey from the hand to the mouth, it would
surely have been better for every one. She her-
self might be happier. She would in any case
meet other people, enjoy new experiences. But
when she suggested it, he flew into a violent rage
and would give no reason. Indeed, he was never
normal. He had many unaccountable traits,
and like others of his moral fiber (or lack of
moral fiber) he showed extraordinary cunning
on occasions. He displayed a genius for finding
out what his women-folk were doing all day, and
he knew to a penny on what they spent the mea-
ger housekeeping allowance. The question of
earning her own living had occupied the mind of
Emma very considerably of late. She was be-

THE INTERPEREB 63

coming restless. Anything would be better than
this bullying, nagging misery, the eternal hun-
ger, and fear of physical pain, and always at the
back of it the terror . . . the terror of something
nameless and more horrible still.

There were times when she doubted whether
her father was sane.

She learned from a girl in the buildings that
she could get employment at a bottling factory.
The hours were long and the wages twelve to fif-
teen shillings a week. Could a girl live on
twelve or fifteen shillings a week? Some did,
and some lived with parents, or clubbed together
in twos and threes. Her friend also told her
with a wink that some of them " picked up a bit
in their spare time." Emma was sufficiently
sophisticated to give a shrewd guess as to what
this implied, and it did not horrify her. The
only thing she feared was her father, and his
physical violence. One day he might go too far.
And she had within her some fierce instinct of
self-preservation. She meant to fight for her
life. She was adolescent, full-blooded, with an
infinite capacity for enjoyment. And these qual-
ities were being suppressed and threatened.
Life was not all like this. She had seen things
. . . heard what the girls said. Her dreams
were colored with romantic tissues, in which peo-

64 THE QUERRILS

pie moved softly in modulated lights, and music
never ceased. Vague schemes were forming in
her imagination already.

Ill

The potatoes and onions were cooking. She
sat on a high box and commenced to draw to-
gether the widening gaps in a pair of stockings.
Mrs. Troon grumbled over the fireplace, and
wiped three plates with a dirty rag.

Their tenement apartments consisted of three
rooms and a diminutive scullery. One room was
Mr. and Mrs. Troon's bedroom, the smallest room
was Emma's bedroom, and the third room was a
combination of living-room and kitchen. It
opened on the staircase.

She had not sat there many minutes before
Mr. Troon came in. She glanced at him. He
was in his sullen mood, which was the least ob-
jectionable and least dangerous one. In that
mood he would merely sit there without speak-
ing, and content himself with growls and curses.
The mood she most dreaded was his hilarious
mood. He would come in singing and laughing,
and be clumsily playful. And then, suddenly,
some little thing would upset him, and his small
eyes would blaze with anger. It was on one such

THE INTERFERER 65

occasion that he had kicked Emma on the thigh,
and struck Mrs. Troon with a plate and cut her
temple. Consequently, it was almost with a sigh
of relief that Emma observed him bang the door
and throw his cap upon the table, and then sit
heavily down in the chair by the fireplace. They
never exchanged greetings, this family ; and Mr.
Troon produced a copy of the " Evening News "
and filled his pipe with shag, and began to read.
He read for ten minutes, and then he said :

"When's the' blasted supper going to be
ready? "

And then the trouble was that although the
potatoes were virtually cooked, the onions
would be at least another fifteen minutes.

Mrs. Troon began a whining complaint:

" I towld 'er to 'urry up. Once she gets down
Queen's Road she goes gaping abaht, takin' 'alf
the afternoon to get a few pennorth o' onions.
Quite time she was out earnm' 'er own livin',
I say. A great gal like that, idlin' abaht all
day."

Mr. Troon listened to the harangue for some
time, then he said suddenly :

"O Christ!"

And he picked up his cap and went out.

When he had gone Mrs. Troon sniffed, and con-
tinued :

06 THE QUERRILS

" I towld yer 'ow it would be. And now there
'e is, 'e 's gone off to < The Cuttle-Fish,' and 'e '11
come back Gawd knows what time, with a skin
full."

" I can't help it," said Emma sullenly. " You
never know what time he'll come in, or what
he '11 do, or what he '11 be like. I don't care a
damn what he does."

But she knew that Mrs. Troon's pessimistic
prophecy was doomed to be correct. She sat
there darning till the room got too dark to see to
work. The onions and potatoes were cooked and
dished up, and put in a pan on the hob. They
lighted the gas, and busied themselves with little
odds and ends. A barrel-organ was playing on
the Embankment below. Children were still
squalling down in the court and on the stair-
cases. The room seemed to become suddenly like
a prison. The cheap carriage clock on the man-
tel-shelf ticked out the truncated seconds. Time
lost all proportion. The impatient hours jostled
each other impetuously. There suddenly came
to her a feeling of despair, a wild desire to escape
from a nameless fate. She was consumed with
a presentiment that something awful that she
had dreaded was going to happen to-night, some
climax to her unfortunate existence. She be-
came terribly frightened.

THE INTERPERER 67

Suddenly the thought came to her : " I will
run away . . . now, forever . . . somewhere
. . . anywhere. Anything will be better than
this."

What was it the organ was playing? Some
tune telling of gay lands and places where people
laughed, and sang, and " walked softly."

" They pick up a bit in their spare time."

She smiled bitterly, and a sullen reflection oc-
curred to her :

" After all, why bother to work from six to six-
thirty if money can be made as easily as that? "

In the hard school of her experience, every one
got the uttermost for as little as possible. No
quarter was given or expected. No one argued,
philosophized, interfered or — looked back. If
one succeeded, well, good luck to you ! No ques-
tions were asked. If one failed — one went un-
der, with a shrug of the shoulders. Who cared?
Who cared? Who cares? My God! who cares?

She snatched her hat and jammed it on her
head. She took her purse, and became aware
that it contained one penny and five half -pennies.
She swung across the room, mumbling to her
stepmother :

68 THE QUERRILS

" I think I '11 just walk to the corner."

What did it all matter? Her hand was
stretched toward the handle when she heard
coming up the staircase the ominous sound of
— her father's voice in song. He was in that
most dangerous of moods — hilarity! She
heard his footsteps stumbling and kicking the
steps and walls. It was too late ! She heard his
key fumbling for the lock, the snap of the door,
and the thick tones of his voice:

" Hjillo, my dear, whereyorfto? "

He did n't wait for an answer. He stumbled
in and banged the door. Then in a sudden dis-
cordant voice he sang :

" They laid 'ei in the cowld, cowld grahnd,
Thet *8 where they laid *er — upside dahn."

He held on to the door for support and re-
peated this lugubrious refrain a dozen times
without variation. Then, suddenly releasing
himself, he screamed at the top of his voice :

" Mar-i-a ! " and added incoherently : " Come
now, let 's 'ave some — grub ! "

Mrs. Troon began fuming and fussing in the
background, clattering with the saucepans, and
Emma, her breath coming quickly, tried to slip
by him at the door. But he was suddenly very
alert, very suspicious :

THE INTERFERER 69

"'Ullo, my ducky," he said, "where are you
goin'? Where 's my pretty bird goin', eh? "

She tried to reply nonchalantly : " Oh ! I 'm
just going to the corner."

" Oh, no, you ain't, my pretty. You come and
sit down next to yer dear old father. When a
gen'l'man comes 'ome in the evening 'e wants to
'ave all 'is lovin' family round 'im."

She stood there, looking furtively at the lock.
And then suddenly his arms, like bands of steel,
gripped her shoulders, and his drunken voice
whispered :

" You '11 stay at 'ome with yer dear old puppa,
my darling."

She struggled abortively with a potent blast of
gin, beer, and tobacco, and then found herself 'be-
ing flung limply across the room, as the song
broke out again :

" They laid 'er in the cowld, eowld grahnd."

She stood by the fireplace, quivering and feel-
ing faint. There wps a moment's respite. Mr.
Troon was suddenly occupied with the scent of
food. He fell into a seat and ate greedily the
food set before him. For some minutes he ig-
nored the others. He ate noisily, occasionally
breaking into snatches of song, and shouting out
at random blasphemies and incomprehensible re-

70 THE QUEBRILS

marks. After a time his hunger was sated, and
he became aggrieved that the others were not do-
ing justice to the good food that he had paid for.
He became unreasonably angry with Emma that
she did not return his paternal endearments.
He said to Emma :

" 'Ma, 'ave 'nother onion ! "

Emma shook her head.

" 'Ave 'nother onion," he insisted.

She still shook her head, and murmured, " I
don't want it."

And then the small eyes blazed with fury.

" By Christ ! you shall have 'nother onion."

He picked up an onion in his fingers, all hot
from the dish, and clapped it on her mouth. And
Emma screamed, and Mrs. Troon, waving her
long arms, cried out :

"Don't be a fule, Jim. For Gawd'a sake,
leave the girl be ! "

But the reaction had come. Jim was all out
of hand. The spirit of Flaming Vengeance was
abroad. His wife and daughter were two dirty,
sanguinary trolls. They spent their dirty exist-
ences trying to thwart him in every way. They
conspired together against him. His God, He 'd
see that they did n't come it over him. Old Cas-
tro had always warned him. What old Castro

THE INTERFERER 71

did n't know about women was n't worth know-
ing.

(When Jim Troon was particularly rampa-
geous he always talked about and quoted "old
Castro," a person of whom Emma was entirely
ignorant.)

It is possible that on this occasion this violent
mood might have worked itself to some innocu-
ous climax but for an unfortunate accident. In
an hysterical moment, not conscious of what he
was doing, Mr. Troon knocked out the contents
of his pipe into a jug of milk destined for the
morning's breakfast, and Mrs. Troon completely
lost her temper. She screamed at her husband :

" Mind what yer doin', yer dirty, filthy old — "

And then Mr. Troon began to see red. He
seized the jug and flung it at Mrs. Troon's face.
That lady screamed and seized the frying-pan, as
though she were going to assault him with it,
and her husband gripped her arm and flung her
across the room. He growled like a wild beast,
and held the frying-pan himself and advanced
upon her. And Emma, in a state of frenzy,
groped her way between them. The terror she
had been dreading was on her. She gasped :

" No, no . . . don't . . . don't ! "

He steadied himself as though for some ab-

72 THE QUERRILS

normal onslaught, baring his forearm. And
then suddenly there came a gentle but firm tap
on the door.

The three of th?m stopped, and looked round
amazed, like animals disturbed in a game.
Neither of them spoke, and the knock was re-
peated. And still they stood there. And then
the door opened slowly. Emma, recovering her-
self first, pushed back her hair and walked to-
ward it. In the doorway stood a young man.

He was tall, calm, and well dressed. He held
his hat in his hand, and said in a quiet voice :

" Does Mr. Troon live here? "

Emma replied, "Yes," very faintly, and he
stepped into the room.

" May I come in and have a word with you,
Mr. Troon? "

He shut the door quietly, and stepped by her
with an air of calm assurance, and bowed po-
litely to the three of them.

Jim Troon, his eyes blazing, like an animal
that has been robbed of its prey, bore down upon
him.

" Well, who are you? and what the hell do you.
want? " was his greeting.

The young man, who seemed slightly taken

THE INTEEFEBEE 73

back by this onslaught, pulled himself together,
and smiled in a friendly way.

" I have called from the Treves Settlement — "
he began.

"Then you can damn well go back to the —
Treves Settlement/' roared his host.

The young man made no attempt to move, but
shrugged his shoulders questioningly. And
Troon went up and swung his arms threaten-
ingly.

"D'year what I say?" he screamed. "Get
back to yer — — Settlement. I know all about
the Settlement! A crowd of dirty lime-
juice spies. D'year what I say? Get out, or
I '11 smash yer dirty, ugly, face in."

The young man surveyed him steadily, and the
thought flashed through his mind : " He 's a
moral degenerate, almost mentally deficient.
Now how on earth do we stand with the law over
a case like this? "

Out loud he said :

" I 've come here entirely in your interest, Mr.
Troon. We have no ideas other than to be of
use. Of course if you wish me to go — "

" I tell you I wish you to go. Get out of my
sight ! You 're thieves and spies."

The young man flushed, but he was keeping
himself in hand. He changed his tone.

74 THE QUEREILS

"You have no right to say that, Mr. Troon.
It could hardly be correct in any case, or the po-
lice would not give us that measure of help and
— protection which they do."

He laid a slight emphasis on the word " po-
lice," and Emma noticed her father's eyes con-
tract in the way they did when one of his cun-
ning moods possessed him.

The young man continued, still firmly :

"Our motives are entirely charitable. We
even have the right to insist on being charitable,
to interfere . . . when convinced of the neces-
sity."

Then, as though the matter were settled once
and for all, he added more genially :

" Come, come, Mr. Troon. You must be rea-
sonable. It is true we know something about
you, but we have no desire to spy. Surely we
can make things a little more comfortable for
you, and for . . . your family?"

" Me and my family are quite 'appy and com-
fortable, thank yer," answered Jim, surlily.

" I 'm very glad to hear it," replied the visitor
briskly. Then he glanced round the room and
remarked :

" All we were thinking of was this. Next win-
ter will be a hard one, and we are preparing for
it. We are enquiring into special cases. " Mrs.

THE INTERFERER 75

Daubeney, who lives at 451, is bedridden, and her
son earns only seventeen shillings a week. We
have arranged to allow her a hundredweight of
coal a month. And we have a certain number
of blankets — "

" We don't want none of yer damn charity,"
cut in Jim stonily ; but the whining voice of Mrs.
Troon drowned his :

" Gawd save us, sir. Don't you take no notice
of 'im. Lord! we could do with a bit. What
with Jim always bein' on the booze, and that
great 'ulk of a gal doin' nothin'. S'elp me Gawd,
it 's a 'ard life, sir."

While this little scrap of dialogue ensued, the
young man glanced at Emma, and their eyes
met. She became aware at that instant of some
strange inner disturbance, something that seemed
connected with her pulse, her heart, her brain.
She was extravagantly conscious of having her
hat on and knowing that she had put it on in
order to go out and meet that destiny of which
she had a prevision. She dreaded that this good-
looking young man would ask, " Where were you
going when I came in?" He seemed to know
everything. It was as though, in some mysteri-
ous manner, the winds of her destiny had sud-
denly shifted her course.

The climax seemed right here amidst these di-

76 THE QUEREILS

sheveled plates and cups in the cold light of the
incandescent gas. It was as though a messenger
had come from another existence to fetch her
away. She was faint from want of food. Her
instincts, unschooled to any social understand-
ing, cabined and directed by the eternal struggle
for food and petty comforts, governed her men-
tality and way of life. And beneath their prim-
itive expression there stirred at that moment,
perhaps for the first time in her life, a feeling of
shame. She was intensely conscious of herself
in that squalid room, the table littered with
newspapers and broken food, the cloth stained
with beer and gravy, the broken diair, her own
disreputable stockings lying on the box, and, per-
haps more insistent than anything, that smashed
onion which her father had clapped over her
mouth, lying disgustingly scattered on the floor.
She moved towards it with some vague instinct
of concealment. She was shivering with the
nervous strain of her tragic experience, when
suddenly the onion seemed to be obscured by
great blotches which raced each other in front
of it.

She felt herself falling, and some one caught
her. . . .

When she came to, she was lying on the bed
in her own room, and the young man was bend-

THE INTERFERER 77

ing over her and rubbing her hands. Mrs. Troon
was hovering by the door, and her father was not
to be seen. She felt very lazy and indifferent.
She could hear the nasal whine of Mrs. Troon's
voice, and then the young man saying :

"She'll be all right now. I'll send round
some beef -tea and some other stuff."

He held her hand firmly and said :

" Well, little girl, how do you feel? Better? "

She tried to smile, and answered faintly:

" Yes, thank you."

He patted her hand and nodded. Then he
turned again to Mrs. Troon and spoke :

" Well, if she is n't quite all right, soon, or if
there 's anything you want, send round to the
Treves Settlement, Mrs. Troon."

Mrs. Troon appeared to be in her most amiable
mood. She answered:

"Yes, sir. I will, sir, and thank you very
much, sir. And for Gawd's sake don't you take
no notice of 'im, sir."

As he was going, she added :

" If I do 'ave to call, sir, who will I ask for,
sir? "

And the young man replied :

" Oh, any one will attend to you, but if you
want to see me, ask for Mr. QuerriL Mr. Rod-
ney Querril."

CHAPTER V

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY

THE mind of Jim .Troon acted in cycles. At
least, that was Emma's experience. She
got to know by his behavior what was coming,
and how long it wonld be before he got back to
the point from which he started. She had fore-
seen that after the young man's departure and
her own breakdown, that her father was arriving
on the threshold of a period of cunning and in-
trigue. His behavior at the time was the tail-
end of a storm, and the visit would give him food
for reflection. He would never whine for char-
ity as his wife had done. It wasn't his way.
But he would undoubtedly scheme to derive from
the visit some benefit to himself. He enjoyed
scheming and plotting to attain his ends, and if
in the process he could manage to wound and
hurt people, so much the better.

On the day following, he seemed much quieter
and more amenable, and one little incident im-
pressed her. The young man had taken out a

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY 79

half -sheet of notepaper, and on it he had scrib-
bled the name of a bottle of tonic. He had given
it to Mrs. Troon and told her to take it to a cer-
tain chemist, who would supply it free. It was
for Emma. The medicine had been duly ob-
tained, and both Mrs. Troon and Emma bene-
fited by it. On the back of the sheet of note-
paper was stamped : " Ballinger Court — Ches-
silton Heath — Surrey?' In the evening she
noticed her father pick up the half-sheet of note-
paper, turn it over, and examine it carefully, and
then he put it in his pocket.

A few days later Mrs. Troon developed bron-
chitis. Emma did not know that it was bronchi-
tis, but she knew that her stepmother was very
ill, and certainly not fit to walk to the hospital.
Immediately she thought of the young man with
the kind eyes. Indeed, she had thought of very
little but the young man with the kind eyes since
his visit, but this was the first excuse she had had
of calling. She spent two hours on her scanty
toilet, and sallied forth.

The Treves Settlement was a tall, gaunt house
in a poor street. We have said that Rodney was
its ruling spirit, but this was not in effect quite

80 THE QUERRILS

true; lie was only the ruling spirit among the
Querrils. It was really run by a small commit-
tee of whom Rodney was one. Its principal sup-
port was a Mrs. Basingstoke, the widow of a
wealthy shipbroker from Yorkshire. Mrs. Bas-
ingstoke gave up the whole of her time, and
nearly the whole of her wealth, to the Settlement.
She was a plain little woman, who worked hard,
said very little, and dressed shabbily. Several
other people, like the Querril boys, gave up what
time and money they could spare. The ideas of
the Settlement were simple and unpretentious.
They were, as Rodney once explained: "To
make the best of a forlorn situation. To do in a
small way what the Government ought to have
done in a big way years ago. Such a place as
ours ought not to exist ; there ought not to be any
need for it, but what are you to do? "

The Treves people were only doing what hun-
dreds of others were doing — trying to blot up
the puddles with blotting-paper. They sought
out individual cases of distress and did what
they could. They kept a record of comings and
goings, proffered advice and received abuse.
They received no recognition, and — in spite of
what Rodney had told Mr. Troon — were looked
on with suspicion by the police.

The only point of policy over which Mrs. Bas-

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY 81

ingstoke and Rodney differed, quite amicably,
was that of the question of interference. Mrs.
Basingstoke had said laconically: "Never in-
terfere, Mr. Querril. Do what you can, but don't
interfere. I have been at this work for thirty-
five years,"

But Rodney had been at it for six months, and
he was young and impatient.

" You can do so much more if you interfere,"
he said.

And he had talked it over with Martin and
Peter, and his conclusions were:

" You must interfere. All progress is a ques-
tion of interference. If I know a thing is right,
I must assert it, and stick to it, and, if necessary,
fight for it. If I see a man ill-treating his wife,
am I to walk by on the other side? It 's all non-
sense, all this talk about leaving people alone.
Jesus Christ, Martin Luther, Cromwell, Lincoln,
Mahomet — all these people interfered, or we
should n't be where we are to-day. Democracy
is just beginning to scratch the surface, and de-
mocracy is going to interfere with individual life
much more than autocracy ever did — much
more than people think. Democracy is going to
be a good red-hot interferer. Some people have
an idea that when we get democratic ideals es-
tablished there will be nothing to do but sit down

82 THE QUERRILS

and enjoy the fruits of it, but, as a matter of fact,
liberty demands a more exacting discipline than
tyranny. Fancy not being allowed to sweat peo-
ple, to exploit their brains, to amass colossal for-
tunes, to treat women as inferiors — fancy, in
effect, money not being allowed to buy anything
it wants ! "

And so Rodney went about tilting at social
and individual windmills. The chase excited
him. He was quite fearless. He assumed pow-
ers that he had not got. He was quite unscrupu-
lous in his mild mission to " do what he could."
And on occasions he was enormously successful.

Ill

Emma Troon was told by a lady in a little in-
quiry-office that Mr. Querril was upstairs in a
room at the end of the passage on the second
floor. Thither she went, and tapped on the door
like a flustered bird. A voice called out:

" Come in."

She opened the door and went in, and then die
had a disconcerting surprise. A young man
looked up from a desk, and for an instant she
thought it was the young man who had paid the
visit. She advanced towards him and then sud-
denly realized that, although the eyes were some-

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY 83

what similar, it was not the same young man.
She stammered :

" Oh ! I — er — I beg your pardon. It was
Mr. Querril I wanted."

The young man looked at her very hard as he
replied, in a gentle, purry voice :

" I expect it was my brother you met. He 's
not here to-day. Let me see ; what is your name?
Can I help you in any way? Won't you sit
down? "

It was very strange. She could not keep her
eyes from his. There was something warm and
comfortable about him. He was shorter than his
brother, but broader, and he looked stronger.
She liked the wisp of brown hair which curled
boyishly across his temple to his right eyebrow.
He looked young, vigorous, with that flavor about
him of another world, where people "moved
softly" — just like they did in films. Her un-
erring instincts told her, moreover, that she was
affecting him in some peculiar way. He looked
flustered, as though inwardly cursing his shy-
ness a^d awkwardness, when he desired so keenly
to don the gay plumage of the dominant male.
She sat down and said :

" My name is Emma Troon, and Stepmother 9 s
sick."

He answered something about it being "too

84 THE QUEEEILS

bad/' and then made some tentative inquiries.
Bnt he was n't thinking a bit about his questions
or her replies. He was looking at her hair, her
eyes, and, rather self-consciously, at her shabby
boots. He seemed to be thoroughly ashamed of
himself that she should have boots like that. He
said, after a time, that the settlement doctor
should go round and see her aunt — no, her step-
mother.

Yes, it was too bad, he said. There was a long
pause after that, during which they just sat
there and glanced at each other furtively. At
length he said faintly :

" So there 's nothing more, Miss Troon? "

"No, there's nothing more to-day, thanks,"
she replied. An appalling reply! The sort of
thing one says to the milkman.

He walked across to the door with her, and
shook hands. His hand was firm, and supple,
and cool. She had never felt a hand like that.
He said :

"Good-by. If there's anything more, you
know — "

She tried to be calm, and like a woman of his
world — the world of films — but she only suc-
ceeded in saying:

" I see. Thanks. Good-by."

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY 85

That evening Emma was very busy with her
needle. She mended her stockings and began
to make up some old material into a blouse.
She cooked her father's supper and left it on the
hob to keep warm. The stepmother was sleep-
ing noisily in the inner room. The doctor had
been, and sent some medicine and a stone hot-
water bottle, and with it had arrived a mys-
terious basket of fruit. Emma liked fruit, but
her stepmother never touched it.

Her . father came in later than usual. He
seemed in a merry mood, but not noisily
hilarious. Something seemed to tickle him
exceedingly. Emma had -never known him so
good-tempered and possible. He even rallied her
about the blouse she was making, and told her
that Mr. Bennett at "The Cuttle-Pish " had
inquired " 'ow 'is pretty gal was." This seemed
to amuse Jim Troon. He repeated it several
times and slapped his leg. After supper he sat
smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper.
And then Emma became uncomfortably aware
that he was not really reading the newspaper.
He was watching her.

She continued sewing, and then moved about
^ the flat, tidying things up. She moved silently,

86 THE QUEERILS

like a large black cat. She came into the lamp-
light, her pretty fingers busy with plates and
knives, then she moved away, a dim and sinuous
silhouette. Once she hummed a little tune, and
her voice was full and mellow.

Jim Troon stared at the bowl of his pipe.
Then he expectorated into the fireplace, and went
out.

" Curse it ! " thought Emma. " I suppose
he '11 come back very late, and smash the place
up."

But she had no thought now of either going
to the bottling factory, or of vanishing behind
the mists of that other uncertain experience.
She took up her blouse again and cogitated upon
the possibilities of being able to raise a few
shillings to get a new piece of material. The
outlook was not promising.

Soon after tea her father returned again. To
her surprise he was not unduly hilarious. In
fact, he seemed abnormally normal. He put
down his cap quite quietly, and once more sat
down and read the newspaper. He asked one or
two questions about the doctor, and at half -past
ten he said :

" Oh, well, I shall turn in now."

Then he came up close to Emma and looked
at the blouse she was making. He seemed rest

EMMA GOES TO THE PIGSTY 87

less and strangely self-conscious. Suddenly he
said :

" What 'b the good of makin' up that old stuff?
'Ere, go and get yourself a noo one."

And he put down ten shillings on the table,
and went to bed.

On her next visit to the Settlement, Emma saw
Kodney, and her visit was fraught with dramatic
consequences. She did not like Rodney in the
way she did Peter, but he was easier to talk to.
There was no self-consciousness between them.
Rodney treated her like a child and called her
"Emma." He was very fatherly and kind.
When she had reported about the condition of
the stepmother, he suddenly remarked :
" And how is your father, Emma? "
She looked up at him quickly and replied :
" Pretty middling, thank you, sir."
Rodney sat with his knuckles pressed together,
examining her. At last he said quietly :

" Now, tell me, Emma, quite between ourselves
— does your father . . . behave unkindy to you
at times? "

Emma stared at him, and her bosom heaved.
She felt uncertain how to answer. Much as she
feared and hated her father, there was an animal

88 THE QUERRILS

instinct to fight for its kind. She resented being
forced into betraying him. S]ie had the unedu-
eated's fear of the jpower of the educated. She
did not know what powers these mysterious
people exercised, what rights they held, or how
they meant to use them. (This one had spoken
intimately of " the police." ) At the same time,
she did not believe that either of these brothers
could do anything unkind. There was something
about the way they spoke that made one want
to choke. She looked on the ground, and
answered in a husky voice :

" Yes."

He nodded his head, and continued in a sooth-
ing voice :

" I 'm sorry. He drinks, does n't he? "

" Yes."

"Tell me, Emma, does he actually strike
you? "

" Yes."

" And your stepmother? "

" Yes."

There was a pause, and then suddenly Emma
broke down and sobbed.

" O Christ ! " she blurted out. " Sometimes
he 's like a wild beast ! "

The young man jumped up, and came over and
patted her shoulder.

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY 89

" There, there," he said. " Don't cry, Emma ;
don't cry ! We '11 see if we can't make things a
little better. I'm so sorry. Now, you go
straight home, and don't worry about anything.
They '11 give you the malted milk downstairs, and
you take some yourself. It 's going to be all
right, you see."

He pressed her hands, and took her downstairs
himself, and one of the ladies did her up a large,
brown-paper parcel.

At seven o'clock that evening Jim Troon
rolled out of the private bar of "The Cuttle-
Fish." It was a fine evening, and two half-
quarterns of gin mixed with a quart of ale con-
spired to turn his mind to thoughts of song. He
stuck his hands in his pockets, and chanted :

" They laid 'er in the cowld, cowld grahnd ! "

He had not gone more than fifty yards when he
met a young man, who came straight up to him
and said :

" Good evening, Mr. Troon ! "

Jim stared at him, and recognized him as the
young man who had called from the Settlement.
He was in the mood to be uncommonly friendly.
He clapped the other on the back and exclaimed :

90 THE QUEERILS

"HuI-lo! my dear boy, how goes it?"

And then the yonng man behaved very un-
friendly. He didn't take the advance in the
right spirit at all. He just stood there, and
delivered himself of this harangue :

" I 've got to tell you something pretty
straight, Mr. Troon, and you must let it sink into
your head. Listen to me. You're being
watched. We cannot help you if you insist on
getting drunk. That 's your own affair. But if
you ever again raise your hand against your wife
or daughter, there will be serious trouble."

The instinct of Jim was a simple and primitive
one. He looked at the slight pale face in front
of him, and he thought :

" I '11 feint with my right, and then bring my
left across — biff ! swish ! and knock his blasted
face through the middle of his neck ! "

The conditions were ideal for such an opera-
tion, and his spirits attuned to the virile pur-
pose. The young man's head was silhouetted
against a mustard-colored wall, and the light
was excellent. And then he inconsistently
looked past him, and his eye alighted on the solid
chunk of a sleepy policeman standing idly on
the curb, not twenty-five yards away. He hesi-
tated and growled :

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY 91

" Whatcher talkin' abaht? "

The young man's face was very earnest, and
his manner very emphatic :

"We do not want to interfere with you, but
it 'a got to stop. Do you understand? You can
do what you like, but your women-folk have got
to be decently treated. There 's to be no vio-
lence. Now, let that soak in, Mr. Troon, and
don't be a fool. Good evening."

He turned, and walked deliberately away, and
left Jim fuming by the mustard-colored wall.
He emitted a string of unprintable oaths, hesi-
tated . . . and then returned to the bar of " The
Cuttle-Fish." Another half-quartern of gin
would help to steady him, and perhaps give him
an inspiration. He was well known in "The
Cuttle-Fish," where he never lacked genial
society, but on this occasion he replied gruffly
to friendly greetings, and retired to the little
room at the back, with his glass of gin.

He was choked with rage. He could not think
or collect himself. He sat there smoking and
sipping his drink. Stung by this outrage, he
had been robbed of his natural need of satisfy-
ing violence. If he had been allowed at that
moment to rend, smash or destroy something, this
story need never have been chronicled. But he

92 THE QUERRILS

had been thwarted at a climacteric, and his mind
instinctively groped its way along its cycle of
progressions in search of some weapon of retalia-
tion. What particularly angered him was that
during the last few days his brain-cells had been
cerebrating toward some vague effort at reform.
Not necessarily moral reform, but reform as
regarded his own external behavior. He never
intended to destroy these young men. He was
going to use them, certainly, but a pleasant,
harmless little game. . . . And now! a torrent
of wrath rushed through his veins when he recol-
lected how he had demeaned himself by being
pleasant to this white-faced swine! His
"women-folk"! By God! . . . He could hardly
get his breath. Interfering lime-juice snarks
butting into his affairs ! The face of Jim must
have looked horrible at that moment. In such
matters, the old proverb of " an eye for an eye,"
etc., was not sufficient. He would have a hun-
dred eyes for one eye, and a hundred teeth for
one tooth. His hand trembled as he put down
his glass, and from his jacket pocket drew out a
half -sheet of notepaper.

VII

Two mornings later, Emma once more ap-

EMMA GOES TO THE PIG-STY 93

peared at the Treves Settlement, and again saw
Rodney. He smiled at her, and said cheerfully :

"Well, Emma, how are things going with
you?"

" Much better, thank you, sir."

" That 's good ! Has your father been — more
considerate? "

" Yes, thank you, sir."

" Not drinking so much ? "

" No, sir."

" No violence? "

" No, sir."

" That 's excellent. Now, is there anything
else you want? "

Emma paused, and then remembered the object
of her mission. She said in a low voice :

"Father was wondering last night if there
was any light work you could give me. He says
I >m not strong enough to work in a factory, or
to go into a shop, but he thought there might be
some light work here in the offices, or some-
thing."

Rodney looked at her, and then examined his
finger-nails.

" Oh ! I see. . . . Well, now, I wonder what
we can do. There is very little work here except
clerical work, and hard charing. Let me think."

He lighted a cigarette, and sat scratching with

94 THE QUEKRILS

a pen on a piece of blotting-paper. Suddenly he
looked up and said :

"Look here: we have a tiny flat at West-
minster. How would you care to go there two
or three days a week, and keep it clean for us? "

" Yes, sir."

"You would? Well, we could arrange that.
Are you doing anything this morning? "

" No, sir."

" Well, would you like to go along there now
and see my brother? He's working there this
morning. If you like, I '11 ring him up in the
meantime, and get him to make some sort of
arrangement with you. He uses the place more
than I do. How would that do? "

Emma gave a little gasp, and managed to
say, " Yes."

And that was how Emma first went to " The
Pig-sty."

CHAPTER VI

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG

MR. AND MRS. QUERRIL'S wedding an-
niversary was always celebrated with a
kind of furtive pomp. Little presents passed
unobtrusively. Mrs. Querril's sister Lena came
and spent the night. She was a clean-cut old
lady, who, as Peter said, " glittered with virtues."
The Lemaires came to dinner, and this year there
were two other male visitors, John - Capel, the
young naval lieutenant; and an American boy
friend of Peter's from the Slade School. His
name was Tony MacDowell and he came from
Boston. He had a flat, monkeyish face, a slow
drawl, and a great affection for Peter, whom he
resembled in many ways.

No reference was made to the anniversary.
It was considered too poignant a matter to talk
about. Only when the girls kissed their mother,
they added a little extra pressure and murmured,
" Darling," in a voice which signified that they
understood. And the boys were very playful

96 THE QUERRILS

and "Georgy" with their father, as though
anxious to impress him that he got younger every
year, that he was more and more one of them.
And the dogs — much to their disgust — received
an extra grooming, and certain old friends and
relatives wrote sentimental letters from various
parts of the country. These letters were passed
round and read without comment. Decimus
Postern could not be present, as he was taking
the chair at some literary club dinner, but he
had called in the morning and kissed Mrs. Quer-
ril's hand and made a speech in his best Corin-
thian manner.

Mr. Querril was in excellent spirits. Mrs. '

Basingstoke had found work for young Stallard
on the farm of a gentleman in Sussex who bred
pedigreed pigs. The work was healthy and ab-
sorbing, and there was nothing to be stolen. The
responsibility had passed out of his life.

He played "Watch Billy" with considerable
acumen after dinner, and was delighted with
himself for detecting the missing card three times
under Capel's pack. Indeed, the young lieu-
tenant was playing rather abstractedly. Tony
MacDowell proved a perfect demon at the game.
His face was quite expressionless, but his gray
eyes had an unerring instinct for detecting the j

pack where "Billy" lay concealed. He ex- <

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 97

plained that to any one who had played poker it
was like pushing a baby over a precipice.

They afterwards again adjourned to Peter's
studio. And in order that the emotions should
not be too deeply stirred, trios and quartettes
were boycotted, and the gramophone was turned
on instead. Excerpts from musical comedies
and ragtime were the order of the night, and
some of the children did some sketchy dancing.
And then George had to have " his piece." His
piece was the "Volga Boat Song," sung by a
Bussian male quartette. It was a very beautiful
record, and it always impressed Mr. Querril very
much. He enjoyed music that was definitely
descriptive.

He liked to half -close his eyes and visualize the
Volga boat song. There was a great murky
river, in the late evening, and a group of barbaric
men were huddled in the bows of a boat. He
could almost see the shallow bank, the long line
of fir trees with the moon just rising behind
them. Away in the distance were the dim lights
of a large town that had been left behind. The
rowers' faces could not be seen, but he could hear
the rhythmic beat of their oars. The rowers were
not singing. It was the group seated in the
bows. He could feel the sway of the boat as
their voices died away farther and farther across

98 THE QUERRILS

the river. They would almost vanish in the
mist gathering over the dark waters, and then
they would appear again, their song sounding
more resonant and triumphant It was like the
song of man's triumph over his unhappy fate.
It was a love song surely, telling of the unquench-
able fires that have burned through that long
calvary of suffering, the song of Russia. It was
very sad, very moving. Mr. Querril glanced
round at his family, grouped happily in that
beautiful room.

A very wonderful and mysterious thing —
art ! To be able to bring into the warm security
of that nest the living vision of strange men and
places; to be able to move the steady pulse of
restraint and austerity into the wild rhythm of
primitive emotion. And yet, after all, wasn't
all life moving to the same rhythm? Increasing
and slackening, rising and falling, telling its
little story, and then disappearing down the dark
river?

The dark river! Mr. Querril glanced almost
greedily around his family group, as though
affected by a sudden gust of apprehension.
There was a large group on the ottoman by the
wall. Martin and Joan, Annette with her head
resting on Peter's shoulder, Tony MacDowell
sitting forward and frowning, and Rodney lying

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 99

back nonchalantly, with Evelyn leaning against
his knees. His wife knitting placidly, and Aunt
Lena sitting rather rigidly in a chair by her side.
Mr. Lemaire standing by the wall, twirling his
mustache and looking at his beautiful wife as
though he had suddenly seen her for the first
time, and had fallen in love. Yes, they were all
there ... at least, no, apparently not Magda?
Apparently not young Capel?

But there was nothing very remarkable about
this. People would stray in and out, vanish for
a time and reappear like the Volga boatmen.
Mr. Querril was not disturbed. He continued
smoking his pipe and listening to the music,
sublimely unconscious of the fact that at that
identical moment his daughter Magda was be-
ing held very tightly by a pair of strong arms,
and that lips, when not otherwise occupied, were
murmuring :

" Magda, I love you ... I love you."
And Magda was crying with the sheer wonder
of it, the surprise, the queer and dangerous
ecstasy, in a land enchanted, although it seemed
to have nothing to do with the Querril world.
On the very seat, at the end of the garden, on

100 THE QUERRILS

which Peter had leaned, and observed that the
moon was too large, and made other philosophic
reflections, Magda was being field in a grip of
steel. And it was not the grip alone which made
her bosom heave. Life itself had rushed toward
a sudden apostasy of Querril faith, something
more moving and tremendous. And she was
unprepared. She could only gasp :

" Darling, I don't know. ... I don't know."

There was no moon to-night, but the stars were
very busy, and the tall flowers nodded in the
gentle wind. And the almost invisible person,
who brought with him something of the disturb-
ing and relentless character of the sea, insisted :

"Damn it! You angel, my leave's up to-
morrow. Say yes. Say yes, Magda. . . ."

It was July, and the progress of emotional
experiences which had brought Magda face to
'ace with this distracting proposition had covered
a period of three weeks, corresponding with the
leave of a certain young lieutenant in the navy,
where they are reputed to do things rapidly.

At first it had all been so simple. A new
member of the Querril set, who could play tennis
and make more noise than any of them, who
entered into all the rags, was tremendously high-
spirited, and yet tactful and charming in man-
ner, altogether a delightful acquisition. Magda

THE VOLGA B0^ : S6^g">-: :H6l ;

liked his steady gray eye, the clean-cut features
and strong chin, and the keen way he moved,
and the infectious way be laughed. It bucked
up "the set" tremendously. And then as the
days passed Magda realized that the steady gray
eyes had nothing impersonal about them. They
were not concerned with "the set." They
singled her out and followed her every little
movement The strong chin and infectious laugh
had a significance for her alone. And this was
very alarming, and it became more alarming
when she realized one night in bed that she
would n't have it otherwise for the world.

And then this person had an arbitrary,
domineering way of doing things that was alien
to the set. It was as though he had suddenly
decided that he was n't going to stand any non-
sense about universal love and the brotherhood
of man. He caught hold of her one evening and
deliberately dragged her away for a walk on
the heath alone. And when out of sight, he said :

" Phew ! It 's a treat to get you away from
your family ! "

And Magda answered :

" You must n't say anything about my family.
They are darlings."

"I know they're darlings, but they're a
damned nuisance when they keep you from me."

V 102: .- :"*•:: J&E [QUEERILS

And that was the beginning of what might be
called an intensive courtship.

Ill

The boys were busy on week days, and Evelyn
was attending an art school in the neighborhood,
and so John made the most of those golden hours.
He took Magda for walks alone, and trips on a
side-car alone, and picnics alone, and even once
up to London to a matinee alone. He was shame-
less in his campaign of unimpersonalism. The
only people who might have been annoyed were
Annette and Joan, at whose house he was stay-
ing. The affair was quite apparent to them, but
they were too loyal to make any comment, and
if it was going to materialize it would be too
sacred to rag about. Only Madame Lemaire,
who was his aunt, and of whom he was very fond
(they always performed a ceremony of flirtation
when they met and parted), said to him one
night :

" Aw-h ! my Jack-ee ! He is haveeng a verree,
verree nice time. But she is a verree, verree nice
girl, ees n't she, my Jack-ee? "

And " Jack-ee " put his arm round her waist
and kissed her, and said :

" Oh, you Frenchwomen ! you can only think
of one thing."

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 103

When the significance of John's advances and
her own feelings in the matter had dawned npon
Magda in their full significance, she began to
take herself seriously to task. It was not the
Querril way to be precipitate. It was all tre-
mendously important. There would be crowds of
things to consider. First and foremost "the
darlings " (by which she meant Mr. and Mrs.
Querril). The more she considered John, the
more she realized that he was a spirit from
another world. He was not really one of the
Querril set, although he fitted into it so well.
Nearly all her friends were literary people, art-
ists, craftsmen, folk whose outlook was essen-
tially towards reform ariS socialism. John came
from the social antipodes, the conventional of-
ficial world. The navy! an almost incredible
profession when you come to think of it, one that
had to do fundamentally with killing people ! It
would be necessary to be more intimate with
the mind of a man who chose killing as a pro-
fession, if one were to be united to him for life.
She could not conceive Martin, or Rodney, or
Peter, willingly choosing the navy or the army
as a profession. It was the kind of thing we
were all moving to eliminate from the world.

And yet John. . . . She could not imagine
John being cruel. He was very considerate.

104 THE QUERRILS

He loved animals. He was careful not to hurt
people's feelings. ... It seemed somehow incon-
sistent, and Magda decided on the next occasion
when they found themselves alone to talk to
him seriously about it. The next occasion hap-
pened to be the following afternoon when they
started out to play golf, and went into a bunker
to look for a ball, and forgot to look for it, and
John was becoming rather a nuisance. Then
she suddenly drew herself away, and shook her
first finger at him, and said :

"Now, John dear, listen. I want to talk to
you about something very important."

" Carry on, darling."

" It 's about your . . . profession."

He looked surprised for the moment, and sat
on his haunches, clutching his ankles. Then he
said:

" Oh, I know it 's a bit of a push. The pay 's
nothing to write home about. Of course I We
got a bit of my own — "

"Oh, you dear donkey! I don't mean any-
thing to do with that. I mean more'. . . its
moral side."

"Its moral side! The moral side of the
navy!" exclaimed Lieutenant John Capel
incredibly.

Then she seized •his hand and said:

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 105

"Oh, I know it's moral enough. It's just
splendid. The sea life, the discipline, the spirit
of the whole thing. The sense of honor one
associates with it. I love all that side of it. It
must be fine or it would n't have produced you.
No, leave me alone. The only thing that worries
me is . . . well, you know, at the back of it all —
killing people. I can't bear to think of that. I
can't bear to think of you killing people. I can't
think why you went into it. I suppose we're
what are called humanitarians, cranks, or what-
ever it is, but I can't get away from it. I want
to know why you . . . what compelled you to go
into it."

For the first time since she had met him, she
saw the face of John Capel entirely grave.
There was not even that ghost of a twinkle in his
eyes. His jaw seemed to shut with a snap.

She thought he was angry. But after a few
moment's reflection he said :

"My dear angel, this beats everything. The
navy 's the finest job in the world. My old dad
was a commodore on the China Station for
fifteen years. It 's the finest job in the world."

He repeated this, as though he still could not
credit that his dear angel could have a serious

106 THE QUERRILS

argument against the existence of the "finest
job in the world," but she insisted :

"Yes, but answer my question. The kill-

* 99

mg. . . .

John Capel picked up a handful of sand and
let it pour through his fingers.

" Nobody likes killing. But the problem is n't
as simple as all that. This country would vanish
without a navy. The history of England is the
history of the navy. You read your history from
the wrong end."

He suddenly pointed his arm in the direction
of the Querrils' house and said :

"You know your friends would never have
got the ideas they have about liberty and democ-
racy, if it had n't been for the navy. And they 'd
never be able to hold them, and to air them —
they're free to say any damn thing they like!
— if it were n't for the steel ships mucking about
in those dirty seas."

" Yes, that may be true. But suppose our gov-
ernment went to war with another civilized
government for political or capitalist reasons.
In your heart of hearts you might disapprove of
the war. How would you feel killing other boys,
perhaps as sincere as yourself."

He smiled at her puzzled face and answered :

" This is treason, goddess of the sand dunes;

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 107

we don't have political views in the navy. Look-
ing at it broadly, we fight for what we represent.
We 're only a tool of a people. And the business
of a people is to stamp its type on the world.
It's evolution."

John Capel had no great gift for words, and
he couldn't express himself eloquently. And
Magda was still not convinced. She nibbled
some beads on a long necklace that hung nearly
to her waist. At last she said, rather dubiously :

" I was wondering whether you could n't get
transferred to the merchant service ! "

And then the young man behaved most sur-
prisingly. He started almost angrily. The firm
lines of his chin and mouth tautened. His clear
eyes expressed a sense of outrage. He stared at
her, and muttered incredibly:

"The merchant service! The merchant ser-
vice ! "

And Magda became aware, by a flash of revela-
tion at that instant, that if he had had to weigh
his love for her against the calls of his profession,
it was she who would have had to be sacrificed,
although the sacrifice would break his heart.
And he looked so young, so boyish, so outraged,
and yet so wistful, so horribly wanting her —
and she with the power to hurt him so ! She felt
as though she were seeking to betray him, to

108 THE QUEERILS

offer him a bribe for his honor. If we were to
" stamp our type on the world," surely the type
of John Capel should be worthy to survive. And
she felt very proud that he was like that, and
that it was she who had the power to make him
finer still. The sun poured down on them, and
she noticed the tiny fair hairs on his cheek just
above the line where he had shaved. And then
he turned and looked at her again. And she
sighed and murmured :

" All right, you dear pirate, I suppose even if
you nail a skull and cross-bones to the mast I
shall have to follow you through the seven seas."

And in the subsequent proceedings which con-
firmed this acquiescence the intensive courtship
made considerable progress.

Indeed, it made such progress as to reach its
appointed end on the very night of Mr. and Mrs.
Querril's wedding-anniversary, and its announce-
ment came rather in the nature of a bomb-shell.
The Volga boat song was finished. The party
broke up and scattered downstairs, the majority
going to the dining-room to drink cocoa and eat
biscuits. Aunt Lena had already gone to bed,
and Mr. Querril had gone into the smoking-room

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 109

to have a last pipe, and read an article in " The
Fortnightly " on "British Policy in the Far
East," when Magda and John came in quietly
from the garden, and John went straight in to
Mr. QuerriFs room and shut the door. Mr.
Querril looked. up and said:

" Hullo, John ! Have some of my John Cot-
ton? It 's in rather good condition."

And John replied :

" Mr. Querril, I 'm sorry to bother you at this
late hour, but my leave is up to-morrow. I want
to ask your consent. I 've proposed to Magda,
and she has accepted me."

And Mr. Querril stared at him, as though ex-
pecting to hear the announcement followed by
a peal of laughter, or a clap of thunder. As
neither of these phenomena became apparent, he
blushed, gasped, and then exclaimed :

"You don't mean it!"

But there appeared to be nothing of an equivo-
cating nature about John Capel's face, although
he was smiling confidently, so Mr. Querril
jumped up and pressed his forearm, and jerked
out:

" My dear good fellow ! "

And then he rushed to the door, and called out,
"Mother! Mother!" He seemed frightfully
anxious to escape to the protection of his wife.

110 THE QUERRILS

She came instantly, and then they both observed
Magda standing in the hall, looking flushed
and excited, with one long strand of hair on the
left side running astray in a compromising
manner.

" What is it? " exclaimed Mrs. Querril, whose
thoughts were frequently occupied with street
accidents happening to the darling children.

"It seems — er — John here — proposed to
Magda — er — proposal for marriage and so
on," stammered Mr. Querril, who always detested
" a situation."

Fortunately Mrs. Querril's technique for such
an emergency was more advanced. She held out
her arms to Magda, and Magda rushed into them,
and they both kissed, and cried, and murmured,
"Darling," in unison. This lasted several
minutes, and then Mrs. Querril dabbed her eyes
and embraced John. He felt her damp cheek
pressed against his, and he thought to himself :

" Evidently it 's going to be all right."

Rumor has the reputation of a coquette, being
volatile, irresponsible, and having the faculty of
always " getting there " unaccountably. On this
occasion it slithered quite easily across the hall,
and up and down the staircase. There was no
general rush or convocation. It happened easily

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 111

and humidly. Evelyn was the first to appear,
and she too cried, and kissed them both.

Annette and Joan came in together, and also
kissed John, and he did not mind. And Mrs.
Lemaire hugged him and looking into his eyes
exclaimed :

"Aw-h! My beautiful faithless Jack-ee, and
eet vas only las' night you said you lofed me! "

"I'll always be able to sandwich that in,
Aunt," replied the sailor, who was too excited
to be gallant. \

And then the boys straggled in one by
one, and shook hands rather self-consciously,
and muttered congratulations. Tony MacDowell
seemed a little indifferent. (As a matter of fact,
Tony, who had only been there once or twice, was
already making his own preparations to fall in
love with Magda. ) And he found himself taken
upstairs to see Aunt Lena. She came out of her
room, in a uniform that was either a mackintosh
or a dressing-gown, and said :

" I understand I 'm to congratulate you, Mr.
Capel. Has Mr. Querril given his consent? "

And John replied quite truthfully :

" As far as I can make out, Madame."

Nevertheless he was very conscious of not
having done the engagement business in quite

112 THE QUERRILS

the right way. It was a faux pas. He ought to
have prepared the ground more. He had per-
verted a sacred rite which ought decently to
have gone on for two or three years, into a
very crude theatrical performance. An inten-
sive courtship was rather an indelicate affair.
Moreover, it was unfortunate to have announced
it on the very night of the wedding anniversary.
The news would be disturbing to " the darlings,"
and might tend to make them feel they were
getting older. An engaged daughter ! It would
keep them awake at night.

And indeed Mr. Querril did lie awake some
time. He peeped across at his wife once or twice
{they occupied separate beds), and he thought
to himself :

" Poor Jenny ! This will mean a lot of worry
to her. I do hope she will sleep. So sudden, so
very, very sudden. A dear good fellow, John!
but . . . precipitate. We hardly know him. It
must have been developing under our very noses,
and we had n't suspected. Of course one's chil-
dren grow up, but ... it 's a great trial for the
mother. Dear me, I don't believe any one let
Potash out. . . ."

THE VOLGA BOAT SONG 113

And on her side Mrs. Querril was thinking :

" My poor George ! How this will upset him !
He adores my darling Magda. What a very
peculiar way of announcing an engagement!
So unprepared we were. Of course he 's a gentle-
man through and through, any one can see that.
His people too, we know; they're nice kind
people. I believe there 's a bishop in the family
somewhere, but oh, dear! George will never
think any one is good enough for our Magda!
He '11 never say so, though. Of course it 's
natural; we all get older and older. The chil-
dren develop, but it 's hard on the father to lose
them like that. What a lot there will be to think
about! There will be frocks to make, and other
things. . . ."

She peered above the sheets, and said quietly :

" Where are you going, George? "

"I don't think any one let Potash out,
darling."

Mrs. Querril sighed.

"I shouldn't bother, darling; he's been run-
ning about the garden all the evening."

Magda was not sure whether she slept or not,
or whether the dreams which came to her were
real or not, but she was floating away over sun-
lit waters with a pirate crew. They were desper-
ate fellows with bandaged heads, and ear-rings,

114 THE QUERRILS

and grinning teeth, and they sang wild songs and
told her about an island they were taking her to.
She was rather frightened of them — they gestic-
ulated and they were armed with knives and
pistols ! — but her dream of the island was such
a beautiful dream that the journey seemed —
worth while.

CHAPTER VII

THE INTENSIVE COURTSHIP

IT was during this month of July that a dis-
tinct psychological development took place in
Peter. That period about the twenties is always
one in which the heart is apt to outrun the brain.
It is an age to be an evangelist, a remaker of the
world, or a sensualist. Tremendous impulses
come pushing up from underneath, and there is
sometimes not sufficient mentality to adjust
them. One is attacked by an idea, one half-
understands it, or reads a smattering of some one
else's opinion upon it, and at once becomes a
whole-hog champion. It is regrettable that
when we have attained a greater power of adjust-
ment we lose that enthusiasm.

The movement attacked Peter in a surprising
form — he began by becoming a critic of his own
family! Of the development of that amazing
impulse we shall read later on, but its inception
was undoubtedly due to his association with two
people, Emma Troon and Tony MacDowell.

115

116 THE QUERBILS

With Tony MacDowell it was a spiritual asso-
ciation. Peter was a philosopher, but Tony was
a super-philosopher, a seer, a prophet, a wise-
man-f rom-the-West ; a combination of the " teach-
ings of Confucius" and some technical trade
catalogue. He knew everything, from the profit
Mr. Gillette made on each of his safety razor-
blades to the emotions of a woman in childbirth.
Moreover, he had a quiet, unobtrusive way of
asserting himself. His generalizations were
like his face, flat and broad. His expressions
were pungent and forceful. He and Peter went
out to lunch nearly every day from the Blade,
and sometimes they wandered the streets to-
gether, and dined in little Soho restaurants.
And what Peter and Tony did not know about
life was not worth recording. The theories they
evolved together about men and women, about
sociology and art, and liberty and love, and other
trivial matters, were always startling and left
no loopholes for further argument. And Peter
found that he became much more intimate with
Tony than he was with either Martin or Rodney.
He was less self-conscious in discussing certain
matters with him than with his brothers.

And one day in a tea-shop in the Strand Tony
said: "You know, Pete, your people are too
sweet. I don't mean in the jollying sense, I

THE INTENSIVE COUBTSHIP 117

mean that they really are too sweet. Family life
is the finest thing in the world — it 's certainly
the happiest — but it can be overdone. Biologi-
cally it's bad when it harries the individual
power of expression. Each one of your bunch
ought to be taken and dumped down separately
into one of those New Mexican towns where you
live right down on the raw all the time. If
you 're a gentleman you come through ; if you 're
not a gentleman you go under. Your lot would
come through because they're gentlemen — I
don't mean the girls — I'm just talking of a
type. What it does n't allow for — this attitude
I mean, this Querril outlook — is that in all the
big things in life one has to act alone. In every
adventure, in every experience, there comes a
moment when one has suddenly to weigh a
chance, make a quick decision — and one has to
do that — alone. And in the end one has to
stand before the bar of God — alone. I don't
really mean a bar, and I don't quite know what I
mean by God, but there must come a moment
when one is all collected together, all one's life
and impulses and temptations — one's whole
story, in fact — and then all these others only
exist in the way that they affected us or we
affected them. One must be terribly alone then.
And this mutual self-effacing business is bad

118 THE QUERRILS

for a race. Unselfishness becomes selflessness.
Don't imagine yon only find Querrils dotted
abont in these lime-washed villas in Surrey.
They 're a by-product of an age which has been
so long lulled by refinement and security that it
has forgotten how it arrived. There are crowds
of Querrils hunched around Boston and even way
out at Los Angeles. But it's essentially an
Anglo-Saxon production. You don't find it on
the Continent of Europe so much, because there
the people — owing to their geographical posi-
tion — always have the fear of God on them."

These words gave Peter food for reflection.
At the same time his mind was much occupied
with Emma. He saw her two or three times a
week at "The Pig-sty," and she was becoming
more and more of an obsession. Before he
awakened in the morning his senses would be-
come colored by some pleasurable excitement,
and then when he was fully conscious he realized
what it was. He thought of Emma and made
love to her in his dreams. When he came into
actual contact with her, his efforts were not so
successful. He shook with a very palsy of self-
consciousness. He looked at her timidly and

THE INTENSIVE COURTSHIP 119

stabbed the air with brief commonplaces and
halting questions. The position was all the
more galling because Emma herself seemed to
be losing some of her shyness. She was more
talkative than he. She always seemed to be
watching for him, and when he arrived and shut
himself in the sitting-room, she would come and
tap on the door and ask him some question.
Then she would stand there by the door and look
at him with a pensive agitation in her eyes, and
quite cleverly make further need for questions
and replies. At this time, too, she appeared to
be better dressed, and in better health. She
always wore a clean print apron, and she had
neat shoes which displayed a very pretty ankle.
Her father, it appeared, was much better. He
had been quite kind to her, and had given her the
shoes and also the new skirt and blouse.

Peter always kicked himself that he cut so
poor a figure at these interviews. And yet,
what was he to do? It would be quite easy to
make love to her, quite easy and quite —
caddish !

For it must never be forgotten that Peter was
nothing if not a philosopher. This was his first
serious excursion into the realms of Eros. He
knew nothing about these things. His father
had told him nothing, and he never discussed

120 THE QUERRILS

them with his brothers. The boys had never
even been allowed to risk the perils of a public
school. So that all Peter knew, he knew from
intuition, from books, and from his own observa-
tion of men and women. His intuition told him
that he was very much in love with Emma, his
book-reading told him that there were at least
two kinds of love, and his observation of men
and women perceived — rather annoyingly —
that this was probably " the other kind " of love,
and his masterly philosophy kept on insisting
that in any case it would n't do. The philosophy
was indeed relentless on the point. At all kinds
of odd moments it would jog him with :

" Don't be a fool, Peter. You know perfectly
well it won't do."

Magda's engagement to young Capel vivified
these conclusions. He could not help comparing
Emma with Magda, and it was rather hard on
Emma. Emma in the Querril household would
be an inconceivable anomaly. It would break
" the darlings' " hearts. No, he would never be
able to marry Emma, consequently to make love
to her would be caddish. It must be acknowl-
edged that Peter at twenty was a better philoso-
pher than might be expected.

Nevertheless the impasse embittered him. He
was unreasonably annoyed with his family that

THE INTENSIVE COURTSHIP 121

they thus held silent watch at the outer barrier
of his desires, and Tony's words about "the
Querril outlook " helped to sharpen his critical
faculty. Was it possible that the Querril family
were not perfect after all? Peter became more
moody, and more observant.

Ill

One day Peter mounted a bus on the way to
Westminster. Opposite to him sat a fair girl
with short curly hair and gray eyes. She was
young and pretty. She might have been a
dancer. For some reason or other Peter could
not take his eyes from her, and he was aware that
she was looking at him with little furtive peeps.
It was a long journey, and as it proceeded he
observed that her eyes became merrier and more
inviting. She smiled and then looked away, and
the intervals when she turned away became
gradually of shorter and shorter duration. A
few turnings before his she got up and stood on
the backboard of the bus, and hovered there like
a small bird about to take flight but still avid
for the crumbs that yet may fall. When she got
off she stood on the pavement, and peeped back
into the bus, smiled quite candidly, and gave a
little movement of her head that if not an invita-

122 THE QUERRILS

tion was nothing at all. Peter felt his heart
beating rapidly, but he sat still. After the bus
had left this dainty morsel out of sight, he won-
dered whether he had not been a fool. The girl
haunted him for the rest of the day, and the air
retained a tingling memory of her.

He never saw this fair girl with the gray eyes
again, but she supplied another faggot for the
philosopher to burn beneath the caldron of his
experience. During the brief incident, the grip
which Emma held upon his emotions was entirely
relaxed. Emma indeed ceased to exist. It is
true that the visions of Emma started again when
the recollections of the other girl had dimmed.

" But," he thought, " is it possible to fall in
love with some one you have never spoken to? "

" The whole thing is just a calf business/' he
decided. In truth, had he ever spoken to Emma?
Was there any real difference in the two cases?
'When he had persuaded himself in the best
Socratic manner that there was not, he was re-
lieved and wretched at the same time. He
avoided Westminster, and painted low-toned
landscapes with furious abandon. Over the
week-ends the tennis parties went on as usual,
and the Querrils entertained their friends, and
lay in hammocks, and went for strolls on the
heath, invented new games, and studied each

THE INTENSIVE COURTSHIP 123

other with adoring solicitude. And at night
under the shade of the orange lamp, they would
lie huddled in little groups, worshiping their
gods, and sublimely ignorant of the bolts of Jove
— .as impersonated by Mr. Jim Troon. The sum-
mer holidays were being discussed, a most absorb-
ing topic. . . •

It was*eventually decided to go to Sheringham,
and for a very characteristic reason. It hap-
pened that one evening George was undergoing a
dose of Mr. Stride. He was in one of his most
trying moods. It appeared that he had to meet
his sister later on at some town on the east coast,
and he was complaining bitterly. He detested
the east coast and had n't a word to say in its
favor. So Mr. Querril, in order to hearten his
guest, spoke enthusiastically about the delights
of Cromer and Sheringham, places which he
really disliked. No one had been listening to
Mr. Stride, but Evelyn happened to hear George's
panegyric. She immediately conceived the idea
that her father wanted to go to Sheringham, and
she reported the matter to Magda. And Magda
told Martin, and Martin told Rodney, and an
inner ring was formed to work out the con-
spiracy. None of the children liked the east

124 THE QUERRILS

coast, but at dinner the conversation was worked
round to the question, and the boys talked as
though they were tired of their traditional Bab-
ington in Devonshire and wanted a change, and
Evelyn said she had heard that Sheringham was
" simply ripping."

Mr. Querril, overhearing the conversation, said
to his wife afterwards :

" I believe the children want to go to the east
coast, my dear."

And Mrs. Querril, who was in the know, but
who was advised not to express an opinion be-
cause it might be suspected (she never had any
personal predilections about anything), said:

" Yes, it would be a nice change, dear. What
do you think? "

And so it came about that the whole family
went away to a place that not one of them wanted
to visit. However, the holiday was eventually
postponed till September, owing to the volcanic
action of Magda's fiance, who suddenly wrote
that he had " wangled another bit of leave " for
the third week in August, and urged for the wed-
ding to take place then. Mr. Querril did indeed
make some mild protest about the inadvisability
of marrying in haste, but the lieutenant was in-
exorably plausible in his demands. There was
no real reason against it In fact there were

THE INTENSIVE COURTSHIP 125

very strong reasons in favor of it. Among others
it appeared that an uncle, who had made a will
in John's favor, was anxious to make over a con-
siderable sum of money to him on his marriage.
He was a very old gentleman with a kind heart
and noble disposition, who enjoyed seeing young
people about him (and incidentally the arrange-
ment dodged the iniquitous death-duties recently
introduced by a scoundrelly Radical Govern-
ment) .

The wedding took place in the local church, a
building never previously entered by any mem-
ber of the family. It took place in the church
because the family believed that Mrs. Querril
believed that it was unlucky not to be married in
a church, and also because Aunt Lena would be
shocked, and certain dear friends might think a
registrar's office " funny."

Magda wore a dark-blue traveling frock, and
the other members of the family wore their usual
clothes. There was indeed a desperate effort on
that day to appear "usual." John; of course,
was in naval uniform, and he brought with him
a certain Captain Lambleton, a breezy giant and
a gunnery expert, as best man. The two naval
officers appeared to the Querrils almost to strike

126 THE QUERRILS

a note of discord. They seemed to judge a wed-
ding as a festival of joy and fun. Even John,
on this most sacred and moving occasion, ap-
peared to be light-hearted and gay. And the
captain was a most irrepressible person, and he
evidently meant to see it through in the real
wedding spirit. Although he had never met any
of them before, he kissed Magda, and Evelyn, and
Mrs. Querril in the vestry, and even Annette,
whom he pretended to think another sister.
He concealed his surprise at finding no cham-
pagne at luncheon, but it did not affect his high
spirits, and he laughed like a tempest, and made
love industriously to all the ladies, scoring most
successfully perhaps with Mrs. Lemaire.

It should be mentioned that this lack of cham-
pagne was not meanness on the part of Mr.
Querril, nor was it done on principle. It was
merely all part of the day's campaign of " usual-
ness." A little whisky was always kept in the
house for visitors, and there was generally a
rather vinegary claret, which nobody drank, and
even a little port. But this was to be essentially
a normal occasion, and on normal occasions they
never had anything to drink except water for
lunch and coffee afterwards.

And so at the luncheon — or the breakfast, as
it is called by people who have champagne —

THE INTENSIVE COUETSHIP 127

they sat round the table and were unusually
usual, talking volubly and striving to enter into
the playful badinage of John and the captain,
but all the time being tremulously observant of
Magda and of each other. Magda herself was
perhaps the most successful. Her cheeks were
flushed, and her eyes were bright, but they would
occasionally wander to her mother's dear face,
and to little Evelyn, whom she was leaving for
the first time, and to "darling George," and to
all the boys, each with some little personal niche
and intimacy for her. How sad it is that in all
these great experiences we can't take all those
we love with us! At least that was one of her
momentary reflections. (Whether it would have
been endorsed by John is open to conjecture. )

And Mrs. Querril, the cynosure of sympathetic
glances, was thinking :

" Dear, dear, so little Magda 's going ! That 's
the first ! I 'm sure he '11 be kind to her. That
blue frock suits her, but how badly Miss Peewit
has cut the yoke. . . ."

And Evelyn thought:

" Darling mother, what a wrench it will be for
her ! How strange it seems ; Magda to-day is just
Magda, to-morrow she will be some one quite
different. She is going away to live with a man
— a man we hardly know. She '11 be his com-

128 ^THE QUERRILS

panion, his best friend, his . . . bedfellow (how
awful that seems!). I hope the darlings won't
worry too much. How noisy the captain is!
almost ribald. . . ."

At length the married couple took their de-
parture. They drove to the station in a one-
horse fly. (Chessilton Heath boasted of only
three, as the majority of people had their own
cars.) It was an affecting farewell, and Mrs.
Querril was allowed to cry a little, and the cap-
tain kissed every one again, and Magda was very
brave, and the dogs barked, ajid the vehicle
ambled out of sight for all the world as though
conveying the products of intensive courtships
and rushed weddings were as usual as conveying
old Mr. Dither from the station to the golf club-
house, where he could disburse the mellow chest-
nuts garnered during a hard day's loafing in the
political clubs.

And when they had gone, the Querril family
strolled about the drawing-room and the garden
and behaved more usually than ever. So keyed
up and solicitous of each other were they that
they could do naught else. Evelyn and the
Lemaire girls talked to Mrs. Querril nearly all
the afternoon about the cut of Magda's yoke, and

THE INTENSIVE COURTSHIP 129

dressmakers and dressmaking. And Mr. Querril
talked to Mr. Lemaire — who had taken the day
off for the occasion — about a new book that had
just come out on the life of Mr. Gladstone. And
the boys played clock-golf on the corner of the
lawn, and smoked innumerable pipes and ciga-
rettes.

Decimus Postern alone seemed abnormal and
unusual. He sat apart, a heaving volcano of
melancholy. The master of words had nothing
to say. All through the day he had been de-
pressed and silent, and now he looked like some
Gargantuan baby on the verge of tears. He gave
himself away distressingly.

It is a peculiar attribute of certain florid char-
acters that, when they are stung to experience a
real emotion, they become as simple as little
children. And Decimus had got it badly.

Living as he did in a world of words, among
sparkling acquaintanceships, and jolly good fel-
lows of transient affections, and elbowing his
way about in a profession of papier-m&ch6 emo-
tions he found in the atmosphere of the Querrils
a soothing benefaction, something which touched
him profoundly. They were so genuinely loving.
He had known them a long time, and he was very
fond of them. He verv seldom talked to them
intimately, but he liked to sit there and listen to

130 THE QUERRILS

their voices. They warmed him with their kind-
ness and sincerity. And then, of course, he
gradually began to realize that Magda 1 s voice
warmed him most of all. He would sit there
with his eyes half closed and listen to Magda call-
ing across the garden, talking to the dogs, or
mothering her mother. Her voice was musical,
caressing, finely attuned to every shade of ex-
pression. And then more slowly he realized that
her face was just the same, and that indeed every-
thing about Magda was fine-drawn, wonderfully
poised . . . adorable.

He wondered at times whether he had been
deceived; whether this mystic sense of enjoying
an enveloping atmosphere was simply due to the
fact that he loved Magda. The Querrils were
just an atmosphere surrounding Magda. He had
iked them all this time because they encompassed
that central figure with its definite individual
grip on himself. But, however it may have
been, Decimus had nursed his hopeless infatua-
tion through several long years. And it was one
of the few things about which he had no illusions.
He was eighteen years older than Magda, a por-
poise in love with a flower. His fame and the
glamour of his personality had never by the
slightest flutter affected her attitude toward
him. It was always " dear old Decimus." And

THE INTENSIVE COUETSHIP 131

dear old Decimus had visualized this day, and
dreaded it, and — words seemed dead things in
the Querrils' garden. In his silent reverie he
was later on assisted by a fellow sufferer. Tony
MacDowell strolled up and took a deck chair by
his side, and remained comfortably mute. The
family and the Lemaires went out for a walk,
and still this oddly assorted pair sat side by side
in silence. At length Tony said :

" Say, Dess, I would n't like to attend a funeral
in this house." Eeceiving no reply, he added,
" I see it 's got you fair beat — like me."

This candid confession seemed to demand no
corroboration, and the large man remained
pufflly silent.

At length Tony continued :

" Anyway, it will be a bully thing for the
Querrils — this wedding. It's just what was
wanted. That young man is the real goods."

Another interval and then :

" They interest me enormously, these Querrils.
They 're one of God's luxuries, and I 'm not con-
vinced yet that He can afford it. If the world
were all Querrils, well and good. But . . .
there 's something about it almost sociologically
perverted, like an attempt to divert the natural
channels of human expression. It's a force
which ignores the element of conflict in social

132 THE QUERRILS

evolution. They're amateurs at life. It's
dangerous."

Decimus blinked at the white gables of the
house, and Tony continued :

"They eat each other up. It's the herd-
instinct carried to a phenomenal degree. It
frightens me. You never know what 's coming
out of it. By God ! those photographs ! It 's like
Pandora's box from which all the evils of the
world may flow."

The large man stirred, and turned his humid
eyes to his companion, and spoke at last :

"It's quite true, Tony; all the evils of the
world may flow from it. But you must complete
your analogy. The world may yet be saved by
amateurs. There was something else at the
bottom of Pandora's box."

" I 'm a bit rusty on my myths. What was
it?"

" Hope ! "

VII

In the meantime the family and the Lemaires
were strolling on the heath, keeping close to-
gether, but changing company continuously as
though they were afraid of becoming too intimate
with each other's thoughts. They flicked the
surface of every discussion and talked at length

THE INTENSIVE COURTSHIP 133

about the captain. That gentleman would have
been pleased and flattered if he had known what
an asset he was to the family for the rest of the
day. Having once opened the subject, they
talked about him interminably. They felt freer
and more natural. He was like a vast, imper-
sonal force that did not affect the fundamentals.
He was so outside them that he did not matter.
They did not appreciate him till hours after he
had gone, but when they did he was a veritable
godsend.

In awkward pauses they would rail Mrs.
Lemaire about flirting with him, and she would
exclaim :

" Oh ! But he was a pair-f eect dar-leeng ! "

And then they could laugh quite comfortably.

The Lemaires stayed to dinner, and that
assertive gap in the table, the seat that darling
Magda always occupied, was unobtrusively filled
by Mr. Lemaire. They did not like to play games
afterwards. Magda always presided at games
and she was so good at them. Neither would
music do. Music, that terrible wizard who pulled
the strings of the heart. And so they sat about
and talked, and Tony gave a description of duck-
hunting on Lake Michigan in the early morning,
and the wonderful breakfasts you could eat
afterwards of " hen-f ruit," fried potatoes, and

134 THE QUEREILS

flannel cakes. Decimus had disappeared, and
Tony explained that he had taken him home and
put him to bed.

There was a distressing little incident later
on. Among the minor fads of the family,
Magda, Evelyn, and Peter always had cocoa last
thing at night, and Magda invariably had biscuits
with anchovy paste. A maid automatically
brought these delicacies into the drawing-room at
half-past ten. And on this occasion she thought-
lessly brought everything in as usual. With
great presence of mind Martin slipped the third
cup behind a photograph frame before Mrs.
Querril had observed it, but the anchovy biscuits
lay incriminately for every one to observe.
Darling Magda! Where was she now?

Everything seemed to imply that Magda had
gone forever. But a naval officer labors under
a great marital disadvantage. He cannot take
his wife to sea with him, and the only time they
can have together is his leave. It was arranged
that they should go to Lynmouth and then pros-
pect for a flat at Chelsea for future eventualities.
At the end of his leave Magda would return to
Chessilton Heath indefinitely.

As a matter of fact she had gone away for only
ten days.

CHAPTER VIII

SACRB DU PEINTBMPS

IT is strange how sometimes a trivial thing,
like a conversation between Mr. Querril and
Mr. Stride about the salubrious benefits of the
east coast, may be the indirect means of affecting
not only the immediate happiness but the future
welfare and fate of a whole group of people.

It is probable that if the family had followed
their traditional policy and gone to the placid
village of Babington, the normal tenor of their
lives would have followed its accustomed course
indefinitely.

But it happened that the month of September
was a particularly robustious one at Shering-
ham. For the first two weeks they were hardly
ever free from a strong wind from the northeast,
which was very invigorating but which got on
the nerves after a time. And during the third
week it rained heavily. Mr. Querril, Martin,
and Evelyn all developed colds and had to stay

135

136 THE QUEKKIL&

in bed for some days. The furnished house they
had taken proved not to be weatherproof, and the
wind rattled the windows and doors. Moreover,
they had come quite unprepared for this kind of
experience. They had not enough warm things,
and Mr. Querril's mackintosh cape and heavy
boots were at the flat in Westminster. It was
eventually decided that one of the boys should go
up to town to collect these things, and also to
attend to one or two matters of business for Mr.
Querril. At first Eodney was going and then on
the morning he developed a chill, and so the lot
fell to Peter.

It was an arrangement which Peter accepted
with alacrity. He was indeed becoming rapidly
bored with Sheringham. He felt extremely well
and virile, but cramped and restless. He could
not paint, and the golfiness and villaishness of
the place annoyed him. They had no other
friends there — the Lemaires had gone to
Etaples, and Tony was in Holland painting black-
and-white cattle and canals and wind-mills in the
Maris manner.

One day he went for a walk by himself, and
the horrid realization came to him that his own
family were getting on his nerves! It was a
treasonable reflection, but a true one. They
were thrown so much together here, and there

SACEE DU PEINTEMPS 137

was nothing to do, and interminable games in-
doors began to pall, and Peter found himself lis-
tening and more and more frequently criticizing.
"Darling George" was very limited in some
ways. He wished Magda — who had rejoined
them after her honeymoon — and Evelyn
wouldn't schwaren so. Martin and Rodney were
both tryingly self-satisfied at moments. He
yearned for Tony, or for some influence to coun-
teract this assured goodness and sweetness. Of
course they were good and sweet and quite sin-
cere. It was n't a pose. It was quite natural to
them.

Peter went for long tramps by himself, and
tried to work off his own perverse mood, and
so he did. But on. his return, back it would
come again. And he became as disgusted with
himself as he was with them. And he could n't
explain it. It was as though some monk in a
cloistered sanctuary away up in the hills, who
had listened to the campanella every day of his
life, suddenly heard it for the first time. And
its beat no longer conveyed to him the expression
of the calm beauty of the evening, but whispered
to him of a world down in the valley, a place so
disturbing that it prompted him to doubt his
fate.

138 THE QUERRILS

And one day he had stood on a promontory
overlooking the sea. The wind was blowing half
a gale, and the angry sea appeared to be attack-
ing the land, lashing its way between the clefts
of rock. The sky above was a scurrying move-
ment of grayness and menace, and the gulls went
screaming against the wind, as though this fren-
zied conflict stimulated them. And Peter stood
there, holding on to a rock, and thought :

" It 's all very big."

And the very bigness seemed to him inspiring.
He must have appeared a very small person
perched up there on the rock, wrapped up in his
mackintosh and cap, with his tuft of brown hair
blowing free. And he too, like the gulls, felt the
thrill of conflict. It was tremendous! The
breezes were charged with the stuff that makes
sagas, and legends, and operas, and the great
moving dramas that have rocked the living
world. It made him realize the origin of myths.
Life was conflict. It wasn't all goodness and
sweetness, nor even philosophy. It was some-
thing bigger. It even had the faculty at times of
making these things seem trivial and small.
There was a genius of life itself, somewhere be-
yond good and evil. . . .

SACKE DU PRINTEMPS 139

III

On the day when he went up to London he
arrived early in the afternoon. He went
straight to Mr. QuerriTs office, and transacted
the few small business matters (and heard inci-
dentally that young Stallard had run away from
the pig-farm and there was no trace of him ) . At
four o'clock he was free for the day, and London
lay temptingly before him. The pavements were
wet, but the sun shone fitfully between light
clouds. He felt interested and curiously satis-
fied. The streets were throbbing with life. He
determined to have an evening of selfish intro-
spective delights. He would mingle in this liv-
ing mass, and enjoy his own detached visions.
He would no anything that came into his head.
He would be a pilgrim in search of salvation.
He would forget all about his family and the
troubles of a philosopher who had got to the end
of his tether. He would drift and enjoy.

He dined early, in Soho, at a restaurant that
Tony and he had often favored. There he ran
into a young engaged couple from Chessilton
Heath. They invited him to sit at their table,
and he could hardly refuse, although he knew he
would not be wanted. They emphasized his
lonely mood by talking to him politely and ab-

140 THE QUERRILS

sently, but their eyes devouring each other's all
the time. They had tickets for a theater, and
he watched them go, a little enviously. They
were so oblivious to the world, so centered on
each other. That must be a wonderful experi-
ence.

How should he amuse himself till bedtime?
He sat smoking and thinking, and then his eye
lighted on a handbill advertising the Russian
ballet at Covent Garden.

He had never seen the Russian ballet, but he
had heard Magda and Rodney and some of the
others say it was " simply too lovely for words."
He was not in the mood to accept their verdict
unquestioningly. OnJ:he contrary, he felt a pug-
nacious disposition to criticize, to assert himself.
But the idea of a ballet appeared to him at the
moment as intriguing as any other form of diver-
sion. He went out into the streets. London
seemed very full for the time of year. People
had probably been driven back by the bad
weather. It was always rather exciting, this
friction of passing humanity. At the corner of
Leicester Square two men in evening dress were
passing him when one suddenly called out:

" Hullo, Querril ! "

He turned and discovered a young man who
lived at Chessilton Heath. His name was Car-

SAORE DU PRINTEMPS 141

ling and he was the son of a wealthy oil magnate.
He seemed to be in a riotously merry mood. He
clapped Peter on the back, and introduced him
to his friend " Major Yates." Then he put his
arm through Peter's and exclaimed :

"We were just going into the Leicester,
lounge."

Peter had a sudden stab of misgiving.

" This is a bit thick," he thought. He had
never been into such a place in his life, and the
rapid vision of the horrified faces of his family
flashed before him. And then he thought :

" After all, what does it matter? There 's no
harm in seeing what these people do."

He found himself in a gorgeously upholstered
room upstairs, and drinking some pernicious
green liquid out of a small glass. The room was
crowded with men and women, and the women
predominated. They sat at little round tables,
staring vacuously hither and thither. Their
eyes had the hard, pleading expression of the vic-
tim that has lost everything except the gambler's
hope, and a self -deceptive faith that the game it-
self is worth playing for the sake of the seven
pieces of silver.

Peter felt hot and ashamed. A pale girl,
younger than some of the others, sitting at a
table near by, roused his pity. The major spoke

142 THE QUERRILS

to her, and she smiled mechanically, and Peter
wished he had not seen the turgid misery welling
up in her eyes. While his friends were thus oc-
cupied, he slipped out.

He was late at Drury Lane, and one ballet was
already over, and they were half through
" Prince Igor." He had not time to grasp any
idea of story. He was suddenly plunged into a
world of barbaric vibration. Savage warriors,
and women, and princes, in a rhythm that was
new to him, whirled across the stage in what ap-
peared at first an uncontrolled riot. It was not
till he had watched it for some moments that he
realized that it was one of the most cunningly
conceived, well-ordered riots the mind of man
had ever invented. He had never heard such
music, never seen such color, such daring
schemes adroitly interdependent. It was as
though passion herself were expressing the gay
plumage of the senses in terms of the theater.
And Peter thought to himself :

"But this is an entirely new art — a new
human experience."

He was still trembling with the emotion it had
produced in him, when the curtain went up on
" Les Sulphides."

SACRE DU PRINTEMPS 143

He was immediately translated to the gentler
nuance of cultivation. The moonlit garden in a
Watteau monochrome. Music which he knew
and loved. Shepherds, and lovers, fauns and
satyrs, and little amourettes among the trees.
An almost passionless grace. Men and women
and statues equally adorable, equally artificial,
and touching the surface of life like butterflies
who ought to be in bed. And yet how dear it
was! how satisfying! And if the age was arti-
ficial, the music of Chopin could strike a deeper
note. And in the dim garden the faces of women
were beautiful, and hearts were beating beneath
those artificial clothes and cultivated manners,
and art could be very vital, perhaps more vital
because it had here the very media of the theater,
the paint and powder of lyrical expression.

When it was over, Peter sank back, tingling
with a sense of satisfaction and happiness, but
his appetite whetted for fresh experiences. The
last item was called on the program " Le Sacre
du Printemps," and the contrast was cleverly
conceived. There was a sudden blare of discord
which raged continuously till the curtain went
up. He then beheld an archaic scene. In a
primitive landscape which might have been
painted by a child of six, a woman was tied to a
stake. Men in red cloaks were stamping up and

144 THE QUERRILS

down in little groups. This monotonous beat
went on and on, and Peter wondered when it was
going to stop. It was horrible, insistent, im-
pressive. The lighting was crude and toneless,
there were no half tones, no contrasts, no lights
and shadows — just the victim and a crowd of
savage, bearded men. They swayed backwards
and forwards, broke up into various groups,
and then rejoined. Others came in, priests and
acolytes, all dressed in primary colors. The
dance raged, but the monotonous rhythm never
varied. It seemed to express perpetuity, the
primordial lust of man, coming through the ages,
demanding his victim. Women came on in
black, to weep over their sister, but the woman
at the stake never moved all through the act.
Beads of perspiration stood on Peter's brow.
He felt that he could not stand it. And sud-
denly he seemed to see her as though she and the
other woman he had just seen at the c^f6 were
one and the same person. She had the same list-
less apathy, the same pale, haunted face. Beat,
beat, beat, went the feet of the worshipers whose
god demanded this unholy sacrifice. They
seemed to be getting hungrier, more avid for the
grim business. More and more men appeared,
growling and moving in and out. Sometimes
the music would sway as though about to break

SACEE DU PRINTEMPS 145

into some more melodic phrase, but always it
came back to the rhythm of an inexorable pur-
pose. And the woman gave no sign. Suddenly
as though the god were tired of this drawn-out
jest, he struck the hour of doom, and the men
drew away in a great circle, and then with a
feral cry they rushed to the center, and threw
the victim on a shield and held her towards the
sun. The sacrifice of spring !

When Peter arrived at the flat that evening he
felt that something fundamental had happened
to him. He had gained something and lost some-
thing, but he had gained more than he had lost.
Nothing would ever be quite the same again.
He was more of a person. He lighted a cigarette
and drank some lithia water. He swelled with
a kind of assertive pride. A hundred little vis-
ions and impulses crowded his mind, things he
meant to do, pictures he meant to paint, atti-
tudes he intended to take up with regard to cer-
tain big issues, particularly as far as they con-
cerned his family. He formed a resolution that
in future he would always say exactly what he
thought at home, even if it hurt their feelings.
Anything else was a mistake. The home life of

146 THE QUERRILS

the Querrils was a small, circumscribed affair.
It wanted expanding.

About some of his impulses he was vague, but
one stood out conspicuously. It was a desire to
champion woman, to be chivalrous. The lot of
woman was pitiable. She was handicapped by
Nature, and man had laid a prehensile grip upon
this disadvantage. He had her well in tow.

Peter smoked another cigarette and thought
big, philosophic thoughts, and then he turned out
the light and went to bed. In spite of the riot-
ous evening, he went to sleep almost at once. He
had no idea how long he had slept when he was
aware of a disturbing, knocking sound. He
opened his eyes and listened. Some one was
tapping furiously on the outside door of the flat.
He rose and walked in his pajamas to the door
and opened it. In the doorway stood Emma.

Her face was pale and scared, and she carried
a small parcel. She almost pushed past him, as
she whispered hoarsely :

" For God's sake let me in ! "

He opened the door wider, and admitted her.

" What is it? What 's the trouble, Emma? "

She stood panting by him, with one hand on
her heart. Then she started crying.

The boy rested his hand on her shoulder.

" Don't cry. Tell me what is it, Emma."

SACRE DU PBINTEMPS 147

" He 's turned me out ! He 's turned me out !
I believe he 's following me. Oh, Mr. Peter ! "

"That's all right. Keep calm. I'll look
after you."

Peter slipped on a heavy coat hanging on the
door and ran down the stairs in his bedroom slip-
pers, switching on the electric light as he passed.
The outside door was shut, but he opened it and
looked out into the street. No one was in sight.
It was a warm night, and he ran out on to the
pavement. His pulse was beating rapidly at the
thrill of this unexpected adventure. He waited
some moments, but saw nothing stirring. Then
he went back and shut the door. When he had
switched off the light and regained the little pas-
sage in the flat, he found Emma seated on a hall
chair, her head buried in her hands.

" It 's all right, Emma," he said. " How did
you get in? "

" I had the key."

Of course she had the key. She had a key so
that she could get in and do her work when the
Querrils were away. He turned on the light in
the sitting-room.

" Come in and tell me," he said softly.

She followed him, with her head bent and her
bosom heaving.

He sat in a chair away from her and waited

148 THE QUERRILS

for her to begin. And then he found her eyes,
which were not all grief, watching him above her
handkerchief.

" He was all right," she said suddenly, " until
last month. And then that man he had often
spoken of, who he calls old Castro, he turned up.
I don't know who he is. Father said once that
they were shipmates. Father's been all sorts
of things in his time. This man Castro is a ter-
ror. He 's a foreigner of some sort, a seafaring
man. Father seemed terrified when he first saw
him, and then they went out together and got
drunk. He 's an awful man. . . ."

Emma shivered and bit her handkerchief.
Peter noticed among other little things that her
handkerchief was clean and her clothes tidy and
in good taste. It struck him how she had im-
proved since the day when he firgt saw her, stand-
ing inert in that room at Hammersmith. She
seemed no longer " the • extraordinarily interest-
ing kid," but a womap, with all the ingenuous-
ness of childhood added to the point and mystery
of womanhood. The sleepy eyes were more
watchful and alluring, and " the old ghost in her
ancestry" had many things to say about the
senses.

She found him watching her, and continued at
random :

SACRE DU PRINTEMPS 149

" Father took to drinking again, and one night
Castro tried to kiss me, and there was a lot of
trouble, and Father wanted to turn me out.
' Go and live on these swell friends of yours,'
he says. You was away at the time, Mr. Peter,
and, of course, in any case ..."

Emma smiled feebly, with a supplicating look
at the back of her eyes.

" Father and old Castro seemed to know every-
thing. He came and told me to-night that you
was back, and told me to come to you. When I
refused, he twisted my arm and went out. He
came back alone about an hour ago. He was
like a madman. He drove me out, and said if
I did n't come here he 'd kill me. He followed
me along the streets. I thought he was watch-
ing me outside. . . ."

The truth of the position began to dawn on
Peter. He stood up and paced the room.

" Well, this is a rum thing, Emma/' he said.
" I don't know what to do. You see, I 'm here
alone. I — Perhaps I 'd better take you to a
hotel."

And then suddenly she jumped up and threw
her arms round him.

" Oh, don't let me go ! Don't let me go ! I 'm
frightened. Keep me here with you, Mr. Peter."

Peter felt her warm body pressing against his,

150 THE QUBRBILS

and her arms holding him tight, and he thought
of black-bearded men dancing in a forest. His
voice trembled as he whispered :

" Well, perhaps it would be all right for you
to sleep in one of the bedrooms. No one need
know."

And then the most surprising moment in his
life came to Peter. Her head was on his breast,
and slowly she turned her face upwards and
closed her eyes, and put out her lips for him to
kiss. The kiss had happened almost before he
was aware of its danger, and it lasted for a
hundred years. When at last he held her from
him, his face was drawn and white, and he could
not get his voice. And Emma was no longer a
child, but a thing of clinging essences, vibrating
to the rhythm of primitive life. And she ap-
peared freer, more unself conscious than he. She
exclaimed :

" Do you know what was happening on that
night when your brother first came to the build-
ings? "

He managed to say " No."

" I was walking out as he came in. I was on
my way. I was going on the streets."

"Emma! . . . Emma!"

"Oh, don't despise me, you kid! You kno^
nothing. You don't know the sort of life we

SACRE DU PRINTEMPS 151

have to live, you people. Only you came after
that, and it all seemed different then. And I
fought against this feeling because I wanted you.
I want you, do you see? I made up my mind, if
ever I was driven out, it was you should have
me."

It was then that the chivalrous impulses of the
philosopher found their master key. And he
thought of the woman in the wood, the sacrifice
of spring ! Did ever such an opportunity occur
to any knight riding through stricken lands?
And he raised his hand as Sir Lancelot must have
raised his visor and thought : " I will save this
woman in the face of the whole world."

He held her tightly and said : " You must n't
say these mad things, Emma. You're over-
wrought. Come and lie down. To-morrow
we '11 make a plan for you."

She sighed, and he led her into the unoccu-
pied bedroom. He transferred the key to the in-
side so that she could lock herself in. He dare
not trust himself to kiss her again, and as he
went out he saw her standing ghostlike and trem-
ulous by the end of the bed.

As he returned to his room, his mind was work-

152 THE QUERRILS

ing at a furious pace. Desires and vague resolu-
tions were tumbling over each other, and he
could not focus them. " The other kind of love,"
which he had for Emma, was desperately asser-
tive, but it was hallowed by these new-found im-
pulses of knight-errantry. How splendid a
thing to marry her, after all, in face of all the
world ! To protect her and care for her, to know
that he had saved her from the stake. He could
see himself, a small, heroic figure, routing these
bearded men with their monotonous rhythm.
And she loved him. Loved him . . . the most
wonderful, moving, flattering experience of all.
She was in that room now, not ten paces from
him, longing for him, holding out her arms to
him, her white knight! He lay there he knew
not how long, rocking with his fevered irresolu-
tions. Away in the distance he could hear the
dim rumble of London's dubious midnight activi-
ties, and it sounded to him like the rise and fall
of some great orchestral overture dimly prescient
of the coming drama.

And then he heard a cry. He sprang out of
bed and ran into the passage. It was all in dark-
ness, but by the door was a figure all in white.
He groped his way towards it and cried out :

"What is it? »

Emma was leaning against the door.

SACRE DU PRINTEMPS 153

" I thought I heard something/' she whispered
hoarsely.

The boy approached her and put his arm round
her. And for the first time in his life his hand
adventured the soft curves of a woman's body be-
neath her corsetless night-dress. In the dim
light reflected from the moon above St. Stephen's
he could just see her eyes, and the dark setting of
her hair hanging free round her shoulders. And
his senses quickened by this unwonted exhilara-
tion told him that she was lying, but he did not
care.

" Why are you here? " he panted.

She did not answer. She seemed to be sway-
ing, and he clutched her madly.

Oh, Peter, Peter ! when the ramparts have fal-
len, and the castle is overrun by these bearded
men with their interminable rhythm, what hope
is there for the forces of chivalry ?

They clung together like children afraid of the
darkness, and then he whispered hoarsely :

" Come into your room, then ! "

In one vivid moment, Peter thought :

"Magda has slept on this bed, and Mother,
and all of them at times. . . ."

But that ironic stab of contrition came too
late — only just too late.

CHAPTER IX

PTOLEMY THE SECOND HAS A RELAPSE

IT was the last day of September, and the
Querrils had returned to ChessUton Heath.
The month was making a loyal attempt to re-
trieve its depressing start. It was late after-
noon, and the sun was warming the opulent foli-
age in the garden with that benign air of assured
satisfaction which he assumes only when the
stress of summer has passed. By the side of the
lawn a tall mass of sunflowers nodded placidly,
as though the sun had made these little counter-
feits of himself as a wayward jest, a memento to
tickle the imagination of these mortals when his
day's work was accomplished. The bees were
very busy among the hollyhocks, like late shop-
pers on a market day. The creeper on the south
wall of the garden had changed from a pattern
of crimson to gold within a week. Potash was
very sorry for himself. He had developed a
rash, and had been bathed in some quite unneces-
sary liquid which made him tingle. He lay on

154

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 155

the grass with his nose resting between his paws,
consumed with resentment that Perlmutter was
apparently not afflicted in the same way. Deci-
mus had called in and was talking to Evelyn
and a young man named Gregory Guest, on the
brick walk of the pergola. Martin was cutting
the lawn above the embankment, and Mr. Quer-
ril was cleaning up the soil of the rose beds.
Peter and Rodney had not yet returned from
town, and Magda was also up there with a girl
friend, furnishing and arranging her flat at Chel-
sea. The Lemaires had not yet returned from
the Continent.

Mrs. Querril regarded the scene from her bed-
room window and sighed. She was never quite
happy when the circle was not complete. A rec-
ollection came to her of when she was a little
girl in her mother's home. She had thought one
day how lovely it would be if she could take all
her family, just all the people she loved most
dearly, away to some desert island where they
would be all alone. A beautiful island where it
was all sunshine, and flowers and waterfalls,
with all the necessary home comforts. And
there would be no one else there at all, and they
would go on living indefinitely, growing more
and more loving to each other. And then she
thought :

156 THE QUERRILS

" How funny that would have been if we really
had gone! I should never have met George.
And now there are others. Quite a large party
for the island. And then there will be — let me
see, when will it be? .About next April or May
— another still, perhaps. Magda's. I wonder
whether it will be a boy or a girl. . • . I wish
Evelyn wouldn't wear those brown stockings
with that biscuit-colored skirt. They make her
ankles look so thick. And my Martin, he will
marry soon, and then Rodney, and Evelyn, and
Peter."

Mrs. Querril had a momentary vision of a Uto-
pian world peopled by Querrils, and all these
dear friends of theirs. It was a world in which
photographs played a not unimportant part.
And the day would come when she, alas ! would
pass beyond it, but it was pleasant to think of
Magda or Evelyn holding up a little fat pink
Querril, and pointing to an enlarged photograph
on the wall, and saying :

"Look, darling, that was your dear grand-
mama ! "

It was a little source of disappointment to
Mrs. Querril that neither of the boys fell in love
with the Lemaire girls. There were times when
she thought that Rodney and Annette, and then
Peter and Annette, and then Rodney and Joan,

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 157

and then Martin and Joan . . . but no, it never
seemed to get beyond the brother and sister
stage. The only likely case was Peter and An-
nette. They were undoubtedly very fond of each
other, these two. They rambled about together
and went on picnics, and when Peter was ten he
had proposed and been accepted. And once
when they were children they got lost together
up on Polly's Head beyond the heath. It was a
warm summer night, and they never came home.
Some one found them the next morning, sleeping
quite peacefully in each other's arms among
the bracken. And even now Peter and Annette
meant a lot to each other. But it was so diffi-
cult to tell. Young people nowadays were so
different from what they were when Mrs. Querril
was a girl. They said such surprising things to
each other, and even kissed, but it very often
meant nothing. They would lie about all mixed
up. There was something about it very charm-
ing. So trustful and beautiful. In fact, it was
only possible among really pure and beautiful
natures.

Mrs. QuerriFs reveries were disturbed by a
sudden commotion in the garden. Evelyn was
screaming, and Martin was running after her.

158 THE QUERRILS

Ptolemy the Second had caught a bird! Ptol-
emy the Second, who in all his career had never
been known to hunt either birds or mice, to work,
love or hate, was suddenly transformed into a
fiend incarnate. He had run across the grass,
flat-footed, with his tail whipping the ground,
and a thrush between his cruel teeth. He was
hiding now among the cabbages. The relief ex-
pedition was in hot pursuit. Evelyn, quite pale,
was screaming :
" Put it down ! Ptolemy ! Put it down ! "
And Martin, following, tense and determined,
with Mr. Querril bringing up the rear with a hoe
and crying out :

" Oh, dear! Oh, dear! This won't do! "
Decimus and Mr. Guest remained on the brick
path. They were discussing the best hotel in
Bayreuth, and Guest glanced at the vegetable
garden, and said casually :

" The cat 's caught a bird. Well, we stayed
at the Kaiserhof the summer before last and ..."
But the awful tragedy was proceeding. Mar-
tin dashed among the cabbages, but Ptolemy shot
like a black streak from one to another, and dis-
appeared. Then Evelyn saw him under some
huge rhubarb leaves. His eyes flashed bright
green and he was growling. He looked horrible.
Evelyn would never have believed that dear

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 159

Ptolemy could look like that. That passion
could be so disfiguring. He was a different crea-
ture. She felt frightened. Martin again at-
tacked, but Ptolemy was much too quick for him.
Then Mr. Querril tried coaxing methods, which
were quite unsuccessful. The dogs joined in the
din. They barked, but having taken one look at
Ptolemy they raced back to the lawn and con-
tinued barking there. And Ptolemy was becom-
ing angry. He was like a wild thing. He re-
sented all this ridiculous interference. He
wanted to enjoy himself, to be cruel at leisure.
. . . The hunt was quite abortive. Ptolemy was
last seen under the rhododendron bushes in the
Lemaires' garden, and then he vanished entirely.

Martin took Evelyn's arm. She was shaking,
and the tears were glistening in her eyes.

"The bird must be quite dead," Martin said
consolingly, and Mr. Querril echoed :

" Oh, yes, the bird must have been quite dead
... a long time."

The disconsolate party trailed back to the
house.

" But I can't make it out," Evelyn suddenly
burst out. "It's so horrible. Ptolemy has
never done this before. Why, oh, why should he
suddenly. ... He looked so horrid."

160 THE QUERRILS

They were within earshot of the two gentle-
men discussing hotels under the pergola, and
Guest turned and smiled.

" My dear girl," he said. " Cats will be cats.
It 's natural. . . ."

He was never invited to the Querrils' again.

Ill

The incident of Ptolemy cast a gloom over the
rest of the evening, and apparently Rodney and
Peter had missed their train. They usually
caught the 5.27, which got them down at half-
past six in comfortable time for dinner. It
meant now that they would n't be down till 8.15,
and they had not telephoned. Members of the
family usually telephoned their movements from
town if they were not catching usual trains.
There was always a slightly strained feeling
when any of them were away. Mrs. Querril
would never leave the house. If some one sug-
gested a walk, she would have a blouse of Eve-
lyn's to finish, or a letter that must be written
to dear Uncle Arthur in Nova Scotia.
. The grass was becoming wet with heavy dew,
and they went inside and lighted up. Mr. Quest
had been speeded on his journey, but Deeimus
came in and sat in the drawing-room. Martin
went upstairs to work.

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 161

Mrs. Querril drew up her chair under the
standard lamp. She was very busy making
things for Magda. There were a lot of things
darling Magda would be wanting now. She was
very lucky to be able to do the&e little things for
her children. They would have dinner late to-
night — about eight. That would mean that the
boys would come in soon after they had started.
At the same time it would be a slight concession
to George — not to wait till 8.15 — because he
always liked to dine at 7.30. George should
have a glass of cherry brandy and a biscuit at
seven. That would keep him going.

Decimus was talking to George as usual.
What a funny man he was! But he always
talked so much, and in such a peculiar topsy-
turvy way. She found that it made her tired to
listen to him for long. He was saying :

". . . than that mountebank Euclid! My
dear sir, Euclid never evolved one original prem-
ise. Give him one of those silly little triangles
or circles, and he will spend hours proving a
thing which any man with a sense of form can
see at a glance. I don't want a man to spend
half the morning telling me that any two sides
of a triangle are together greater than the third
side. I also object to his method of proving that
some quite obvious and useless proposition is

162 THE QUERRILS

wrong and then exclaiming: ' Which is ab-
surd ! y This of course is simply rude. It 's like
putting your tongue out at a student and calling
him a fool. If a thing is absurd, why launch
into all this talk about it? Why not leave it
alone, or else prove that something which ap-
pears absurd is really rather sensible?"
A most amusing man !

Just before dinner the telephone bell went.
Evelyn dashed to it. It was Rodney. The tele-
phone seemed to be working badly. He was very
indistinct. She gathered that they had both
been delayed and would not be down till the last
train, which arrived at 11.20. He wanted to
speak to Martin.

Martin went to the telephone. They heard
him say :

" Yes . , . yes. All right, old man."

Then he hung up the receiver, and went up to
his bedroom.

At dinner they were all very quiet, with the ex-
ception of Mr. Querril, who was in one of his
Gladstonian moods, which was not a good sign.
Evelyn knew that when her father talked about
Mr. Gladstone — of whom he had a great ad-

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 163

miration — he was always worrying about some-
thing. And she could see no connection between
the tragic moral relapse of Ptolemy and the
Coercion Act in Ireland in 1881.

" Do you remember, Decimus," he was saying,
" how he held out for the three F's? Fair rent,
fixity of tenure, and free sale? "

Mrs. Quernil looked at her husband admir-
ingly, and said to Evelyn :

" Evelyn darling, get your father some of that
' gentleman's relish ' ! "

" I do hope he won't sit up for the boys," she
thought. "He always will. It's so unneces-
sary, and they are sure to be all right."

She w&s always trying to persuade Mr. Querril
to retire from business. She disliked London —
a dreadful, dangerous place and worse than ever
now with all these motor-buses and taxi-cabs.
One was always reading of such dreadful things
in the papers. One day they would all live down
there together. As the children married they
would each take a house on the Heath. And
then they would be always visiting each other,
bringing over each other's babies to play, and
exchanging photographs. Chessilton Heath was
almost as good as the island. It was free from
the element of alarm and distress. There was
plenty of time to cross the roadway. The only

164 THE QUERRILS

danger was from golf balls, and that was only
in certain parts of the heath, and then people
always called out, " Fore ! " so kindly. The vil-
lagers and tradesmen were so kind and nice.
Every one was kind and good. One only had to
believe that people were good, and it brought the
good out in them. She always secretly disap-
proved of " that Settlement." Of course it was
right that the boys should be kind and charitable,
but she did n't like the idea of them actually go-
ing and mixing with " all those people." They
might just as well have stopped at home and
sent a donation. Poverty and suffering dis-
tressed her so that she could not contemplate it.
She tried to believe that it did not exist, or that,
if it did exist, it was rapidly righting itself some-
how. Any book or play which dealt with such
things, she would not read or see. She would
say:

il There is quite enough of that sort of thing in
the world, my dear, without reading about it."

Mr. Querril still continued talking about Glad-
stone, and Martin with his eyes on his plate,
thought :

" Oh, God, I wish he >d stop ! "

Mrs. Querril suddenly observed that Martin
was looking very pale. She thought:

" I must get Martin some of that stuff that

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 165

Jeanne Lemaire wks recommending. My dear
Martin works too hard."

Her mind quickly reverted to Magda, as it al-
ways did when it required relief. Thoughts con-
cerning Magda now were the coziest thoughts in
the little boudoir of her mind.

" Somewhere about the beginning of May.
Dear me, it 's Papa's birthday on the third of
May, and Peter's on the seventeenth. I hope the
affairs won't clash. What on earth has cook
done with these French beans to-night? They 're
quite brown. . . ."

It was Mr. Querril who suggested that they
should sit in Peter's studio after dinner. And
thither they all went with the exception of Mar-
tin, who remained in the drawing-room to read a
novel. But Martin didn't read. He held the
novel in front of his eyes and occasionally read a
sentence. But across every page there danced
before his eyes the words that Rodney had whis-
pered over the telephone :

" Keep calm, old mani Something awful has
happened. I can't tell you. Meet me on the
11.15. Say nothing to the others."

Good God? What did it mean? He said

166 THE QUERRILS

nothing about Peter. Peter had been killed?
He felt that Peter had been killed. He sat there
shaking, and fingering the leaves of " The Dark
Flower " by John Galsworthy.

Upstairs Evelyn turned on the gramophone,
and they listened to two songs by Caruso. On
an easel by the wall was an unfinished landscape
that Peter was going to send to the International
Exhibition. It was a low-toned study of a brown
field and a few bare trees against a lowering sky.
And Peter said he was going to call it " Spring."
That was so like Peter! So unlike the normal
conception of spring. No fresh green leaves and
dancing lambs, but very like spring in some of
her moods, bleak and gray, with a suggestion of
something behind, something virile being born
behind the dark harrows. Mr. Querril smiled
sympathetically. Peter's technic was somewhat
crude, but the root of the matter was there all
right. His canvases were alive with ideas,
at present' inadequately expressed. What a
strange thing it would be if Peter became a
great painter ! Why not? Not one of the Quer-
rils had ever attained eminence, but they all had
ability.

" It is the kind of stock from which genius will
sometimes spring," thought Mr. Querril.

Caruso was doing his best to pour some of the

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 167

oleaginous vintage of the warm South into this
Northern crucible, but for once he failed to
arouse enthusiasm.

At ten o'clock Decimus took his departure,
and Mr. and Mrs. Querril had a short game of
picquet, which Mrs. Querril won and then went
to bed. Evelyn followed her.

Martin somehow felt he could not be left alone
with his father. He said he would go for a stroll
round and then go and meet Rodney.

" You won't sit up, will you, guVnor? " he said,
knowing perfectly well Mr. QuerriPs reply :

" Eh? Oh, yes, of course I shall sit up ! "

He saw him stuffing tobacco into his pipe, and
settling down to read. He looked so calm — so
utterly unconscious of the " something awful "
now rushing towards him in a train from Lon-
don. Martin choked back a sob of pity, and hur-
ried from the room.

The night had turned cold and dark. He
walked briskly across the heath, making a long
circular trip. White sign-posts stood up out of
the darkness, and he could hear the tinkle of
sheep-bells behind an enclosure. Lights were
faintly perceptible in the upper rooms of several
houses, but many of them were already in dark-
ness. He reached the station half an hour too
soon, and plunged hither and thither. Once he

168 THE QUEEBILS

raced back as he saw the lights of a train ap-
proaching, but it was only a goods train that
went lumbering through. Then he waited be-
neath a dark wall by the corn chandler's shop.

At last he heard the distant shriek of a whistle,
and the 11.15 came languidly along the metals.
He stood just outside the gate, with his hat
pulled down over his eyes. The train stopped,
the engine panting and gasping, like an old lady
winded by a nocturnal adventure.

A few people trickled through the booking
office. At the end came a man, reeling as though
he were drunk. His collar was turned up and
his hat was pulled right down over his eyes. It
was Rodney. Martin stretched out his hand and
gripped him, and as though by mutual consent
they said nothing, but hurried on together down
the lane. Rodney's face was perfectly white,
and his lips quivered. Every moment he gave a
little involuntary groan, like a man recovering
from the effect of drugs. They reached the field
and leaned against the stile — the very stile
where Mr. Querril had worried so about young
Stallard — a cart went crunching down the lane
hard by, and then all was silent. And Rodney
buried his face in his hands and groaned.

Martin gripped his brother's shoulders, and
whispered :

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 169

"What is it, old man? Is he—?" The
word " dead " faded on his lips.

Rodney choked back the tears, and looked up.
His eyes were buried in dark rings.

" O God ! O God ! " he gasped. " I wish he
were. I wish he were dead. It's worse than
that ! "

Martin said nothing, but his breath came
quickly.

"They've taken him. They've arrested
Peter. They 've taken our Peter/'

Rodney was crying now and he didn't care.
He had wanted to cry all day.

"It's those Troons. They say she's tinder
sixteen. They've arrested him on a charge of
criminal assault on a young girl."

Martin could do nothing but convulsively
clutch his brother's arms and shoulders. No
words would come. He had not yet the relief
of tears.

" I 've had an awful day. There 's nothing to
be done. If they find him guilty, he'll go to
prison — perhaps for years. Our Peter will go
to prison. What are we going to do, Martin?
We 've got to tell them ! We 've got to tell them !
And Magda does n't know. I had no time to go
to Chelsea. I've been with lawyers all day.
She '11 see it in the newspapers in the morning ! "

170 THE QUERRILS

" Is it all true, Rodney? Did he — ? "

" He spent a night with her in the flat. He 's
confessed it. But I can't believe she 's under six-
teen. The man Troon has produced a birth cer-
tificate. Is father up? "

" Yes. He 's waiting. You 're unstrung, old
chap. Let me go ahead and — tell him."

Martin was already more concerned about Rod-
ney than about any one. He added :

" Perhaps we won't tell the Mater or Evelyn
to-night. After we * ve told the guv'nor, I '11 slip
out, and cycle up to London. There are no more
trains. I can do it in a few hours. I'll go
straight to Magda."

Rodney did not answer. They had come to
the gravel path of the carriage drive. A dim
light showed in the hall. He stumbled up to the
door, and Martin helped him to the porch seat
outside. Then he whispered :

" Wait here ! "

Martin went straight in. His facer had that
set look of determination which characterized it
when he went in among the cabbages after Ptol-
emy the Second. He walked quietly but delib-
erately into the drawing-room, and shut the door.
Mr. Querril looked up from his book. Before he
had time to speak, Martin said as casually as he
could:

PTOLEMY THE SECOND 171

"I say, Pater. Kodney has just come in.
He '« rather done up. There 's been a bit of a
dust up. Peter, it seems, has got into some sort
of silly mess. Of course it's nothing. It'll
probably blow over in a day or two. There is a
girl mixed up in it or something."

Mr. Querril took off his spectacles and looked
mildly alarmed. He didn't understand at all
what it was all about. He coughed and said :

" Oh, dear ! is n't he coming down to-night
then? "

" No. It seems he had to call at a police sta-
tion or something or other. He probably won't
be down for a day or two. We thought we
wouldn't tell the Mater or Evelyn about it to-
night."

Mr. Querril immediately had a definite posi-
tion to cling to. There was trouble of some sort,
and, "Of course, assuredly no! We wouldn't
tell the Mater about it." A great mistake to
worry those you love with unnecessary misgiv-
ings.

" Of course, quite right ! Quite right ! Mar-
tin," he said, enthusiastically, "no need to tell
them. I 'm sorry. Where is Rodney? Has he
gone to bed? "

" Yes. At least I think he 's on his way up.
He 's got a bad head."

172 THE QUERRILS

" Oh ! " Mr. Querril looked into the fire and
rubbed his glasses vigorously. There were a
thousand questions ne wanted to ask, but —
Poor Rodney! How very distressing! Martin
too looked very dejected. Perhaps it would be
better not to worry them both. Within his
breast there was a brief conflict of the sensibili-
ties, and the broader aspect of the case tri-
umphed. It was apparent that both Rodney and
Martin were very distressed and upset, and were
not anxious to be more communicative to-night.
His position as a father — Alone in his bed he
would endure the white night of suspense.

CHAPTER X

FILM-LAND

ANTONIO CASTRO was an Irishman. At
least that was the nationality he fre-
quently claimed. On the other hand, he had
sometimes been heard to remark that "one na-
tionality was as good as another to hang a man
by," and also that "he'd swop his nationality
with a Chink if it would bring him the price of
a pot of beer." He was of quite indeterminate
age, with curly hair that seemed to have turned
prematurely white. His yellow, pock-marked
face and keen, malevolent eyes certainly seemed
younger than the hair, and the little silver ear-
rings and the tattoo marks extending to the back
of either hand added to the general picturesque-
ness of this human ruffian. Antonio spoke a
sailors' language. That is to say, if you put him
down in any port in either hemisphere he would,
by a cunning combination of pantomime and
polyglot expression, obtain anything needful for

173

174 THE QUERRILS

the ministration of his material demands. He
knew neither fear nor master. He was always
willing to eat, drink, fight, or play cards for any
stakes with any man.

In the witness box at the Old Bailey he gave
his evidence with an easy and insolent assurance,
his dark eyes flashing, and the steady grin reveal-
ing the line of firm white teeth. Assuredly he
had known his friend Jim Troon since the fall
in 1888. They had been shipmates together in
the Norman Baron, plying between the islands
of the Malay Archipelago, and again on the oil
tank steamer Don Alfonzo between 'Frisco and
Yokohama. He had known the first Mrs. Troon
well. Her maiden name was Maria Ferrati.
He could n't say whether she was Italian. She
looked it, but he never heard her speak any other
lingo than good British. He identified Emma as
her daughter. He had occasion to remember her
birth, because it happened in the month of No-
vember, 1901, and during that winter he was
working at the Commercial Road docks and often
visited the Troons. He examined the birth cer-
tificate with great interest, and nodded his ac-
ceptance of the fact that it was a true and proper
document. The certificate showed that the birth
of Emma Troon had been duly registered at the
registrar's office in St. Bride's parish, Stockwell,

FILMLAND 175

in July, 1896, thus proving that she was within
two months of her sixteenth year at the time of
the assault. It was signed by a registrar, an
aged man who was also called to give evidence.
He identified the signature and found that it was
corroborated by the books of the registry. He
had no recollection of " the parties concerned."
People were coming in all day to register babies.

The case was over by three o'clock in the after-
noon, and Jim Troon and his friend Castro went
out of the court together, and made a beeline for
the nearest public bar, which happened to be not
three minutes' walk away. Jim called for " two
three's of gin," and the two men began to recover
from the strain of their uncomfortable appear-
ance in a court of law. Jim nodded and winked
and muttered :

"Well, we done down the stinking lime-juic-
ers."

The most difficult element in human life which
the reformer has to cope with is the element of
perversity. There w&s no real reason why Jim
Troon should so detest the Querrils. They had
come to him with open arms, anxious to help,
to be friendly, and extremely anxious not to ap-

176 THE QUERRILS

pear patronizing. But there is a primordial
streak in most of us, and in men of the type of
Jim Troon most particularly, of hatred towards
anything which is superior to ourselves. And
Jim Troon's hatred was of a particularly ugly
kind. His friend Castro raised his glass and re-
marked :

"Chin Chin! Let the blasted guy rot in
chokee! Now what about the gel?"

Jim wiped his mouth and his eyes sparkled.

" You 'eard what the lawyer bloke said. Fifty

quid down, and two pounds a week till the

comes out of quod. Then 'e 's to be consulted."

" Yup," replied Castro, " and now what about
my little bit? "

"It's a square do," said Jim. "You don't
cop me goin' back on me word. It 's 'alves all
through."

" Good boy ! " said Castro, " but the mutton-
faced galoot said he was only goin' to pay the
money to the gel. She 's to fetch it every week."

" Don't you worry ! That gel 's under age."

And Jim's laugh was not a pleasant thing to
hear.

" 'E give 'er fifty pound in notes on the spot
And I'm looking for Emma. She cut off di-
rectly she had left the stand."

FILM-LAND 177

"Your friend Castro will accompany you,"
grinned the " Irishman."

They had two more of these refreshing drinks,
and then boarded a bus to Hammersmith.

Ill

After giving her evidence at the trial, Emma
went straight home, without waiting to hear the
verdict and sentence. The atmosphere of the
court frightened her. She didn't understand
what it was all about. A gentleman had given her
fifty pounds and had promised her two pounds a
week for an indefinite period, and this news ab-
sorbed her whole interest. It opened up a new
vista of life. As far as Peter was concerned,
she was sorry but not unreasonably distressed.
He was to all intents and purposes finished.
Her father had told her that " the young swell "
would get two years' hard, and for any one like
that, "brought up soft," it would finish them.
She shivered when she thought of the delirious
moments she had enjoyed with him and that it
would never happen again. But still. . . . From
the top of the Hammersmith bus her dark eyes
were watching the people. There were plenty of
them. They were going in and out of shops,

178 THE QUEBRILS

going in and out of restaurants, eating, drinking,
laughing, buying clothes, buying jewels and
motor cars. Oh, yes, there were plenty of people
and things going on ... a girl must look after
herself. Fifty pounds ! She could buy a house
surely, and go and live in it with servants, and
go out to restaurants to dinner. What could n't
one buy with fifty pounds? And then a steady
income every week without any work to do ! A
glow of comfortable excitement crept into the
eyes of the watcher on the bus.

She found their rooms at the tenement
deserted. The stepmother had put on her best
bonnet and gone to the trial. So thrilling and
entertaining a cause cdlebre did not occur every
day of her life. Emma washed her face and
made herself some tea, then she lay on the bed
and dreamed. Crowds of little visions danced
before her eyes, a foretaste of the splendid
experiences to come. She had already peeped
behind the curtain, and the scene intoxicated
her. She had no idea how long she lay there,
before she heard the sound of men's voices sing-
ing on the stairs. It was her father and Castro.
They came in in their most hilarious mood, with
their hats on the backs of their heads, and struck
ridiculous attitudes. When her father had
sated himself with song he said to Emma :

FILMLAND 179

" So she 's lost 'er darlin' boy ! "

And Castro broke into some rollicking sea
song. Emma watched them both alertly, with-
out speaking. At last her father added :

" She 's lost the boy and got a bit of bunce."
And Castro went down on his knees to her, and
spoke some drunken foreign language as though
he were paying court.

" Let 's 'ave a look at the little bits o' paper,"
said Jim at last.

She had dreaded this, and she said sullenly:

" It 's my money."

Then Jim was righteously indignant Did
she take him for a thief and scoundrel? Of
course it was her money. The young swine had
done her down, made a wanton of her, and it
was only right the family should pay for it.
But she wasn't a financier, was she? She
couldn't handle notes and bank balances. No,
her good father would collect it, pay it into a
bank and look after it for her. When she
wanted a bit, he would hand it over. She should
live in luxury and comfort all her days. It was
only right. His daughter was a lady. And
Emma watched him with her lazy eyes and sud-
denly flashed :

" Was that why you drove me to it? "

Then there was very nearly trouble of a

180 THE QUEBRILS

physical kind, and Castro had to intervene with
his oily voice and his flashing, dangerous eyes.
Eventually Jim got hold of the notes and stuffed
them in his pocket The following morning, to
her surprise, he turned up at eleven o'clock with
Castro and handed her a sovereign. The rest he
said he had " put in the bank for her." Then
he and Castro went out, and were not seen again
for ten days. They drifted through Hammer-
smith, Chelsea, Greenwich, Blackwall, Poplar,
Limehouse, and God knows where, eating, drink-
ing, quarreling, playing quoits, faro, and poker,
attending dog fights and music halls, and con-
verting Mr. Querril's money into the means of
satisfying every mortal lust. Emma waited four
days for her father to return, then one morning,
when there was a warmth in the air, she rose up
and dressed herself in her best, and did up a
neat little parcel of her belongings. When her
stepmother asked her where she was going, she
told her to " mind her own bloody business/' and
she went out and never returned again to Case-
ment buildings.

r
IV

She took a room in Bloomsbury, and called on
the lawyer who had handed her the money. He
was a kind, oldish man, whose office was in

FILM -LAND 181

Lincolns Inn Fields. He said she could have the
two pounds every Friday, if she called any time
before five o'clock.

Emma found her room very comfortable. She
got up late, had all she wanted to eat, sat about
the place and made friends with her fellow
lodgers, went to cinemas. Life was full and
satisfying. She could never get over the emo-
tional thrill of the moving pictures. It was won-
derful to step off the pavement on a dull day,
and suddenly find oneself whirled into an atmos-
phere of blazing sunshine in some Italian gar-
den (in New York), where gorgeously beautiful
women were badly treated by their fabulously
rich husbands. And then to the strains of
intoxicating music the drama moved amidst
adventures of stolen babies, and diamonds, and
government secrets, and the young heroic clergy-
man who saved the gorgeously beautiful wife in
the end. Every one seemed so rich, and so well
dressed, and so good looking, and the music was
so suggestive of the good things of life.

Emma would return to her room limp and
wide-eyed. It occurred to her after a time that
she was not rich enough. That two pounds a
week was n't so very much after all. She called
on the lawyer again, and put her case to him.
The cost of living in Bloomsbury was excessive,

182 THE QUEBRILS

and she had incurred expenses and so on. He
said he would report her complaints to Mr.
Querril. In due course she was informed that
her allowance was to be increased to three pounds
a week.

On the strength of this accretion of wealth,
she moved to a larger room in the same house,
stayed longer in bed, ate more, and went to more
cinemas. At that time she made friends with
a Mrs. Womblesby, a florid, middle-aged lady on
the first floor, who had a pink, puffy face beneath
its powder, masses of short, fuzzy hair, and little
blue earrings. She flattered Emma enormously,
and was always talking about her beauty.

" You are a pretty thing," she would say, an£
then she would nod her head and make funny
little clicking noises with her tongue. She
drank great quantities of stout, and was always
trying to persuade Emma to do the same.

" If you had more blood, my dear, you 'd be
able to run with the best of them," was another
favorite remark. She met some most peculiar
men in Mrs. Womblesby's room, and one night
Mrs. Womblesby left her alone with a gray-
haired gentleman with long legs and boney
fingers. He suddenly caught hold of her and
kissed her on the lips. She had a terrible

FILM-LAND 183

struggle to escape from him and threatened to
scream the house down.

When she complained to Mrs. Womblesby
afterwards, that good lady exclaimed:

" Beely ! Well, I never thought the Major
would behave like that," and then she added with
a sly little wink :

" E 'd 'ave given you a sovereign, I expect, my
dear."

And Emma felt no horror at this suggestion.
She gazed out of the window at the passers-by
and answered sullenly :

" I don't need his sovereigns, thank you."

At last a young man, and Austrian waiter,
named Busche, made violent love to her. There
was something about him rather fascinating.
She had seen his like in the gorgeous rooms of
the New York moving pictures. He was redolent
of pomade and high life. She gave herself to
him, and went to live with him in some rooms in
Greek Street, Soho. But the affair lasted only
five weeks. She found that he had a violent
temper, and he disgusted her in many ways.
Moreover, he seemed inclined to throw up his
work and to live on her money. They quarreled
and fought like two animals, and she left him
and went back to Mrs. Womblesby.

184 THE QUERRILS

But she had acquired a more expensive taste
in living. She liked to go out to restaurants,
and began to find music halls more thrilling than
cinemas. She bought clothes and paste jewelry
and got into debt. She again appealed to the
Querrils, and to her surprise received a visit from
Rodney.

Rodney was kind and polite, but very firm.

" I hope you 're not unhappy, Emma," he said.
" I don't know what my brother's feelings are in
the matter. Perhaps when he is free he may do
more for you, but we do not feel justified in
making any further advance. However, my
father sends you this five pounds to pay any little
debts you may have. Don't you think it would
be a good idea if you took on some work of some
sort? "

She said, " Yes," rather unconvincingly.

" My other brother and I have left the Treves
Settlement, but if you will call on the lady super-
intendent there, she has promised to do whatever
she can for you. Will you? "

Emma again said, "Yes," her mind busily
occupied with other matters.

She had no intention of going to the Treves
Settlement, but she was too frightened of " these
clever people " to acknowledge it.

FILM-LAND 185

It was on the following Sunday that Emma got
her chance. Mrs. Womblesby asked her to
accompany her to the Milano Caf 6 near Leicester
Square. She said she wanted to introduce her
to a gentleman who was enormously rich.
Emma put on her most alluring clothes and
went. The gentleman's name was Mr. Carl
Grete. He was a middle-aged man, very broad
and strong looking. He had a red face and a
black mustache and a not unkind expression in
his brown eyes. He fixed them on Emma and
did not remove them once during the conversa-
tion. In the end he asked her to come to his
flat in St James' the next evening, to dinner
with Mrs. Womblesby. Emma went, and Mrs.
Womblesby failed to put in an appearance.
They dined alone, and it was the most entrancing
experience of her life. She had never seen a
place like that in real life, only on the film. And
it had the added glory of color and comfort and
discreet lighting. There were tapestries on the
wall, and old furniture, and glittering silver, and
an elderly woman who served incredibly beautiful
food on pretty plates, and poured out a sparkling
drink which seemed to inspire her to an even
greater appreciation of the glories of the hour.

186 THE QUERRILS

And afterwards he sat with her on the settee
by the fire, and he kissed her lips and played with
her hair. And later he said suddenly :

" Now look here, Emma, I 'm a plain business
man, and I believe in a plain business deal. I
live in Manchester, and I only come to London
sometimes. You shall have this flat to live in
as your own, you shall have a servant to wait
on you, and I '11 give you two hundred a year
for yourself, if you '11 be my mistress and promise
to run straight when I 'm away. What do you
say? "

And Emma answered, "Yes," in the same
breathless voice she had replied to Rodney's
question, only on this occasion she meant it.

Mr. Carl Grete was a cotton spinner. He was
married and had five charming children living in
a large house in the suburbs of Manchester. He
was a devoted husband and father, and was
known in business as a man of his word. He
said:

" Good ! Then that 's a fair do ! You won't
find me go back on anything I say. And I '11
expect you to stick to your side of the deal.
Come to me to-morrow. I'm tired to-night.
I 've had a heavy day in the city."

CHAPTER XI

ME. QUEREIL ASKS FOB CHEESE

ON the day following Peter's trial and con-
viction Decimus Postern took up his po-
sition lugubriously and alone in the Querrils'
drawing-room. The family had spent the pre-
vious night in town. Decimus had arrived early
and taken advantage of his position as a persona
grata among the servants ( established by liberal
tips at Christmas time) to make himself at home
till they returned.

He sat for a long time, with his fat hands
resting helplessly on his knees, staring into the
deserted garden. Autumn flowers were still
blooming, and the tennis posts had not yet been
taken in. The dogs were nowhere to be seen,
but Ptolemy the Second was sleeping innocently
in his position on the parapet of the pergola.

Occasionally Decimus would get up and walk
heavily about the room and the hall, with his
hands behind his back. Once he made an

187

188 THE QUERRILS

ambling survey of the house. The first thing
which struck him was an enlarged photograph
of Peter in the hall. It was taken when he was
five. He was a beautiful boy, with podgy cheeks
and dark eyes that might have been on the verge
of either laughter or tears. He was wearing a
velvet frock trimmed with lace, and he was stand-
ing on a chair.

Decimus turned away from it. On the stair-
case were three photographs of Peter ; one taken
last year working at an easel, one perhaps three
years ago in tennis flannels, and another in a
group with his mother and Aunt Lena. On the
first landing were two more groups in which
Peter was conspicuous. He peeped into Mr. and
Mrs. Querril's bedroom (the door was wide
open). Facing the bed was an enlargement of
Peter in a sailor's suit

" Instruments of torture " was the phrase that
occurred to Decimus, and he tiptoed guiltily
upstairs and entered Peter's bedroom. Here
were only two photographs — one of Mr. and
Mrs. Querril, and one of Magda and the dogs.
On the walls were several canvases unframed,
just stuck on nails. There was Peter's tennis
racket in a press against the wall, a row of shoes,
a plaster cast on the top of the deal wardrobe.
It was all very plain and simple, but what struck

MR. QUERRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 189

Decimus was that there was something con-
sciously untidy about it, as though some one had
dusted the room but had made a point of leaving
everything just as Peter had thrown it down.
There was a pair of gray flannel trousers flung
across the bed, a sketch just begun on the mantel-
piece, an open box of charcoal, a pile of water-
colors, a cricket bat, two golf-clubs, two old hats
on a chair, pipes littering the dressing table, and
a canvas over-all hanging limply from an oak
easel in the corner.

When Decimus surveyed this room he was
conscious of an unpleasant, choking sensation
somewhere in his vast breathing apparatus. He
turned and walked slowly down the stairs of the
deserted house.

When he had regained the drawing-room he
sank into the easy chair facing the window.

"What will they do?" he thought, and then,
" Instruments of torture ! "

He would have liked to have had Tony Mac-
Dowell there, but the American boy had gone
from Holland to Italy, and had probably heard
nothing of the trouble. He wanted to say to
Tony:

" You would be surprised, Tony. I don't know
how it is, but they're wonderful. You were
wrong about your funeral idea. As a matter of

190 THE QUERRILS

fact, people like the Querrils are more capable
of coping with a funeral than with a wedding.
Some big trouble brings out all their best quali-
ties. It's in the little things that they go to
pieces. But when all is said and done, there 's
a lot in Querrilism."

He liked that word " Querrilism." There be-
gan to stir in his brain the various chaotic
imaginings which he recognized as the symptoms
of a new book. It would make an excellent book
— one of those neat little octavo volumes in what
he called "The Wedgwood Series," printed on
vellum, with an oval plaque by Angelica Kauff-
mann on the cover. Of course he could never
write such a book. It would be disloyal — in
the worst of taste. But all the elements were
there. And curiously enough it would be a book
not so much on his views on Querrilism, but on
his views of Tony's views on Querrilism.

" Querrilism through Western eyes."

No. Too much like Joseph Conrad. Perhaps
in pamphlet form, " Querrilism. It '& cause and
cure." Or, "The perils of the Querrils." No,
all too flippant.

Decimus had a lot of time on his hands. Tor-

MR. QUERRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 191

rents of words, emotions, deductions, and
apothegms jumbled together in his brain.

" The basic evil of Querrilism is that it is an j
attempt to divert the natural channels of individ- j
ual expression. A force, without prejudice or :
predilection, believing only in good, ignoring the
element of conflict in human affairs, is bound
eventually to destroy or pervert itself ."

That would be an excellent beginning. (In-
spired by Tony. Tony would be a useful man in
the offices on Adelphi Terrace. ) What was it he
said about " eating each other up "? But they
had surprised him. Their solicitude for each
other in the crash of doom had buoyed them up.
They suffered in silence and alone. They were
" gentlemen." Mr. Querril, with all his limita-
tions, was a unique gentleman. You might kill
a Querril, but could not divert the flow of
Querrilism. The point required expounding :

" It may be said of Querrilism that in any case
it has great powers of resilience. It is the herd-
instinct carried to a phenomenal degree. Ento-
mologists tell us that the ant individually is a
perfect fool. He hasn't any idea what he's
doing. He will climb a steep boulder carrying
an enormous load when he might just as easily
walk around it. He will do utterly senseless and
unnecessary things repeatedly. If you tread on

192 THE QUERRILS

his nest, he loses his head, and behaves like a
thing distraught. The herd-instinct for the time
being evaporates. It depends upon some quite
unaccountable wave of instinct for the fevered
activities of reconstruction to begin. This can-
not be said of Querrilism. It is a conscious herd-
instinct. It knows what it is doing. It does
not lose its head. If you tread on its nest it
begins its fevered reconstruction instantly. If
the Querril ant is crushed, the other ants are
so concerned about the feelings of each other they
have no time to suffer about their own. They
close up their ranks spiritually. They become
more intensely a herd. ,,

And then suddenly something seemed to snap
in Decimus. The tears started to his eyes, and
his great body shook.

" O God ! " he groaned. " What will they do?
What will they do?"

He buried his face in his hands and was very
silent. No more words came to illumine the
dark spaces of his emotion. The day began to
draw in. He rose at last, and stood by the
window. The tennis lawn looked neat and trim.
A few late roses were spilling their abundance
in little pools of red and white. A mass of
yellow flowers stood out boldly against the
Lemaires' fence. It all looked very sane and

MR. QUERRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 193

placid, supremely conscious of the genial hours
of its past and of the "ghosts of lovers,"
supremely innocent of the wild, unreasoning
disaster hovering above its fading loveliness.

Ill

And then through the little gate at the end of
the garden there came a figure in a gray cloak.
It was Annette. She came dilatorily along the
grass paths, looking stonily at the tennis court
and the flowers. And Decimus knew that her
mind was occupied with thoughts very similar to
his. She seemed to be looking at each flower and
saying :

" What will they do? O God ! what will they
do?"

She walked so slowly it appeared to be diffi-
cult to drag one leg after another. Once she
swayed, and he thought she was going to fall.
He went to the window and called gently :

" Annette ! "

The face of a friend seemed to steady her.
She nodded at him sagely and increased her pace
a little. He saw her amble up the path and dis-
appear into the house. After a moment or two
she entered the room, and he went forward to
meet her. The pupils of her eyes were distended
and her cheeks were damp. She crept towards

194 THE QUERRILS

him aimlessly, and he kissed her on the cheek.
She gave a faint little sigh and muttered :

" Dessy dear."

But all the life had gone out of her voice.
She drifted by him to the window and looked up
at the sky. Her lips were parted, and her hands
were crossed on her breast. Decimus could see
that her whole body was shaking, and yet the
tears would not come.

Suddenly she said in a dry voice :

"Soon the willow herb will be out, and he
won't be here. . . ."

She continued to nod her head in a wise
fashion, as though she were communing with the
God who had the ordering of herbs and shrubs
and little people's lives. Then she continued
dispassionately :

" We used to go up to Folly's head about this
time. The bracken is all yellow . . . and the
rabbits go scampering away under the ferns.
Do you remember the day he lost his hat? We
hunted for it in rabbit holes for half an hour
and then he remembered that he 'd never brought
one ! "

She laughed mirthlessly and exclaimed:
" That was so like Peter ! So like my Peter ! "

Suddenly she turned on Decimus and threw
herself in his arms.

MR. QUERRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 195

"Oh, Dessy dear, it isn't true! Tell me it
is n't true ! It 's all a mad dream. They can't
take him. They can't take my Peter! They
can't take my Peter ! "

Thank God, she was crying! The big friend
of the family held her tight. He stroked her
disordered hair — beautiful, wavy, brown hair —
He was choking himself but he managed to say :

" There, there, it will be all right, dear . . .
he '11 come back ! He '11 come back ! "

But she clung to him and shook and gripped
his arms convulsively. And suddenly she
laughed horribly, and Decimus was frightened.
He helped her to a couch and rang the bell for
the servants. With the help of Mrs. Yardley,
the loyal and ancient housekeeper of the Querrils,
and one of the maids, they coaxed her up to one
of the bedrooms. And then Mrs. Yardley insisted
on putting her to bed, and giving her two hot-
water bottles and some sal-volatile. She had a
great faith in hot-water bottles. There was no
ailment of body or soul that could not be to an
extent relieved by hot-water bottles. And her
message of consolation was :

"There, there, dearie, we all have to go
through it. You put one on your feet and one
on your tummy and you '11 be all right."

In the meantime Decimus telephoned for the

196 THE QUERRILS

local doctor. And then he thought to himself:
" Poor child ! I shall never forget that laugh
of hers. It was horrible, horrible! Nature is
intensely cruel. But this may help matters. It
will be a diversion. Perhaps just the very thing
that was wanted ! "

And indeed the breakdown of poor Annette
was not without its helpful side. When the
family arrived an hour later, looking white and
disheveled, like a concourse of attendant ghosts
hovering round each other, Decimus was able to
greet them with the arresting announcement :

"Annette is here. We've put her to bed.
I 'm afraid she 's very unwell."

The news seemed to produce an immediate
flush of vitality in the group. They were con-
verted from ghosts to animate creatures. All
the women-folk dashed up to the bedroom, their
minds and bodies occupied. The men went into
the drawing-room with Decimus.

Mr. Querril looked older and somehow smaller.
His face appeared pinched, and he had not
washed since the morning — a most unusual and
significant lapse — but he was extravagantly
calm and detached. He cross-questioned Deci-

MR. QUERRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 197

mus about Annette's collapse, and asked which
doctor he had telephoned to. When informed
that it was Dr. Fox, he remarked :

" Fox ! I 'm glad you sent for Fox. He 's a
good chap, takes a lot of trouble and does n't fuss.
I like him better than Whitehead, though White-
head's clever. I believe he has taken more de-
grees and so on, but he 's brusk in his manner,
and he always smells so confoundedly of Harris
tweed."

Of the trial, and of Peter, not a word ! The
process of closing up spiritually had commenced.
The boys hovered round their father admiringly,
but with an expression which seemed to suggest
that they thought that any minute he might
vanish through the floor or the ceiling. Only
once that evening was there a definite break-
down. During an interval ot attending on
Annette, Mrs. Querril, who was sitting on the
couch by the fire, suddenly burst into tears. She
was soothed in silence by Magda — who had come
down with the rest — Nothing was said.

Dinner was announced shortly afterwards, and
Mrs. Querril said she " really could n't," but
Magda took her arm and said :

" You must, darling."

And they went into the dining-room. No one
£te anything, but they all made a great show of

198 THE QUERRILS

flashing knives and forks, and pretending to be
comparatively normal. Martin drank an enor-
mous quantity of water, and Mrs. Querril was
persuaded to have a glass of port

Decimus tried to keep his eye from the photo-
graph of Peter — an enlarged head — just above
the sideboard, but it kept wandering back to it,
and the insistent voice of the phrasemaker would
still juggle with words :

"Broadly speaking there are two blocks of
people, East and West ; people who interfere, and
people who don't interfere; people who are con-
tent, and people who have the genius of dissatis-
faction. One of our jocund poets has said,
' East is East, and West is West.' This is only
partly true. East is most certainly East, but
West is West and a bit more. West is West with
a touch of North and South, a touch of East, and
a big touch of the stars. East is a fatalist, and
West is an idealist of a clumsy sort. East be-
lieves in a millennium, a condition predicating a
static condition of the soul; West believes in
pushing on the best way it can to a better — but
still fluid — order of society. i Neither the
twain shall meet/ said the jocund poet. But they
will meet, because the West will go out and meet
the East, and in time will get to know all about
the East. For too long has the West been mes-

MR. QUEBRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 199

merized by the East, like a schoolboy in the
presence of an aged grandfather. And the West
will in time absorb and control the East, because
it is more restless, because it is dissatisfied, be-
cause it has greater vitality. And it is vitality
which counts. ' For that is the law of the
Jungle, O Best Beloved ! ' '*

When everybody thought that the pantomime
of eating was finished, Mr. Querril suddenly
exclaimed :

" I 'd like some cheese. "

This explosive demand seemed to arouse Mrs.
Querril. She looked round, with the expression
of the hen-mother amidst a brood of chicks sud-
denly conscious of her responsibilities.

** Lydia," she said, addressing a maid, " I be-
lieve there's some of that Wensleydale left.
Bring it in for the Master."

And the cheese formed an excellent topic for
Mr. Querril to dilate upon.

" Decimus, my dear good fellow, you must try
some of this. It 's excellent, like a Stilton only
milder. The flavor is very subtle. A cousin of
mine — James Querril, do you know him? —
charming fellow ! runs a model farm near Whitby
— he sent it to us at Whitsuntide."

200 THE QUERRILS

Mr. Querril talked exhaustively about cheeses,
the rival flavors of Cheshire, and Cheddar, the
beauty of a " really good old Stilton," about a
restaurant in the Strand where you could get
Camembert thirty-five years old. And while he
spoke, the mind of the essayist was very busy :

" Now here is a remarkable example of Quer-
rilism and indeed of the Western temperament
On such a night as this the Eastern would have
sat in a hair shirt in his temple, praying. He
would have made his women-folk do the same.
He would have said, ' All is darkness about me.
My son is dead to me. He has sinned against
Thy holy covenant. Ah ! woe is me ! Woe is me ! J
But the Westerner in this critical hour suddenly
exclaims, ' I want some cheese.' Not because he
really wants cheese, but because he 's not think-
ing of himself. He's closing up his ranks
spiritually. It 's a stronger attack. It 's heroic.
It 's terrific ! "

And so in the trials of that day Decimus dis-
covered many compensations, and one compen-
sation that made him almost delirious. Some
time after dinner Magda touched his arm and
said:

" Dessy, will you come up to — to the studio
for a moment? "

He followed her heavily to the top of the house.

MR. QUERRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 201

When they entered the studio, she turned on the
electric light and shut the door. She peered
about the room, and touched an overall of
Peter's that was hanging on an easel. And then
to his surprise she suddenly said :

" Oh, Decimus dear, hold me in your arms a
moment. I want to cry. I want to have a good
cry."

Decimus did as he was bidden. For the second
time that day he became a father-confessor, the
big friend of the family. But it was somehow
different holding Magda in his arms to holding
Annette. He was intensely conscious of the
faint perfume of that beautiful hair tickling his
nose and chin. He was enthralled and flattered,
although he knew that the appeal was anything
but flattering. He knew quite well that she was
merely using him as a medium of relief. She
wanted to cry with some one who did n't matter.
He was just outside the immediate circle of
Querrilism, but not so far outside that he could
not be trusted to know how to behave. He was
sympathetic and quite safe. And Decimus knew
all that, and it wounded him a little, but he did
know how to behave. Two large tears trickled
down his cheeks and mingled with her hair. She
dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, and he
felt her bosom heaving as she gasped:

202 THE QUERRILS

"Oh, darling Peter! Where is he now?
What are they doing to him? They '11 kill him ! "

And the big man replied hoarsely :

"No, no, Magda, he'll be all right Hell
come back ! "

She fumbled with his coat and her handker-
chief, and continued talking in little jerky sobs :

"It's all so cruel . . . Peter couldn't pos-
sibly have understood. . . . Why didn't some
one tell him? He 's only a little boy himself. O
God! He's not capable of doing anything
wicked. Peter has never had an unkind, cruel
thought in his life. Peter is innocent, pure, a
darling! Everybody knows it. . . . Oh, what
does it all mean, Dessy? What does it all
mean?"

And the maker of epigrams could think of
nothing better to say than :

"He'll come back, Magda dear, he'll come
back. Of course he did n't understand. . . ."

And then as though inspired by the collect of
the day he added :

" We must think of the others, Magda."

She squeezed his arm and gasped :

" Oh, I know, I know. It 's the only thing that
keeps one going at all. But one has to cry some-
times if only in secret, and — thank you so much,
Dessy dear, you 've been so sweet. I 've got to

MR. QUERRIL ASKS FOR CHEESE 203

be so brave now, perhaps it 's a little different
for me. Thank you so much. Let us go down.
I won't make a fool of myself again."

In the hall they passed Ptolemy the Second.
He came out of the drawing-room, yawning. He
walked languidly towards the kitchen, stretching
out each leg with a slow, ecstatic movement, as
though it were a form of sensuous joy not to be
hurried over. On perceiving Decimus, he put
back his ears with an expression of disgust, and
disappeared.

Probably no one of " the Querril set " slept well
that night, with the exception of Annette, who
had been given a powerful sleeping draft.
Though at dawn Magda slept for three hours, her
hair scattered in wild profusion on the pillow,
but her face relaxed and placid, like a child's.

And during the small hours Decimus enjoyed
moments of at least semi-consciousness. The
leaves of the eternal book kept turning back-
wards and forwards, the thoughts tumbling over
each other :

" It resolves itself then into a question as to
the degree to which this principle of self-efface-
ment may be applied. One cannot quarrel with

204 THE QUERRILS

love as a principle. One can only insist that love
shall fortify and not stultify the individual.
Love comes in so many disguises . . . and the
perfume of her hair . . . what is it? . . . opopo-
nax faintly . . . opoponax and something more,
the essence of life, tears and laughter . . . the
breath of a woman standing in the presence of a
miracle. . . ."

CHAPTER XII

PETER'S LETTER TO TONY MACDOWELL

AM writing this diary to you, Tony, for a
very good reason. It is with the idea of
keeping sane. My thoughts, feelings, black ter-
rors, and despairs are so confused that I want
desperately to detach some concrete arrangement
from them. The act of setting something down
may be a sedative, however trifling and inconse-
quent it may appear to read. So you see it is
quite a selfish letter, written more for my own
benefit than for yours. My greatest difficulty is
to convince myself that I am indeed identically
the same person that I was before the trial, that
the qualities I had then are still mine. But
everything works against this conviction. The
atmosphere of the court and the prison have
mesmerized me into a belief that I am an entirely
different person, that virtues and impulses and
dreams which I then enjoyed are now the prop-
erty of some one else, and that they will never be
mine again.

205

206 THE QUERRILS

"During those early days when out of the
clear blue vault of heaven there came this sudden
bolt of destruction, I was too consumed with the
aspect of the result to give much attention to the
cause. I was indeed only able to think of myself
in relation to the appalling cloud of sorrow I
had brought into the lives of those I loved. I
could think of nothing but my mother's face as
she looked at me across the court, of my father,
and of Martin, and Rodney, and Magda, and
Evelyn. It seemed incredible that I could have
been so cruel to them. It seemed incredible that
any one, or any system, or any form of social
action, could be so cruel to any one. The con-
templation of their suffering nearly drove me
mad. I wished to God I had been an orphan
without relatives of any sort, and then perhaps I
could have faced this thing in the spirit of a man.
I could have retained my individuality, and
found some salve within myself. As it was, the
vision of my family's grief whipped me into a
thousand fragments, and when I came back to
that poor thing that was myself it seemed so
pitiable an object it made me shudder. Again
and again I tried to encompass it, to take it by
the scruff of the neck and to say to it :
" i Come now, it 's not all finished. Remember
. . . remember • . . remember.'

PETER'S LETTER 207

"And for a time I lived in little episodes of
my past life, and tried to convince myself that
they were real and intimate. I conld see Rodney
missing a low drive of mine at tennis, and conld
hear him calling out:

" « Oh, good shot, Pedro ! '

" I conld see Magda swaying on the piano stool,
her shoulders slightly raised as she weighed the
keys, and her gentle voice :

" i A shade faster, darling.'

" I could hear Martin ragging me, and some-
times even my own voice calling him ' a hoary
old porpoise.'

"All these things were still mine. They
couldn't take them away from me if I fought
hard for them.

" Of the unspeakable thing itself, I could only
contemplate it in its effects on these visual rela-
tions. In some ways I was surprised at my own
lack of compunction. Neither could I persuade
myself that the offense was of the vile nature
which the law proscribed. I had no standard of
values in the matter to go by. I could only judge
by my intuitions, and I could not believe that any
experience so crowned by beauty, and so utterly
devoid of any element which appeared against the
grain of nature or of instinct could be vile. Even
at that time I harbored some vague suspicion

208 THE QUERRILS

that there must be a mistake. The sentence sug-
gested cruelty, and God knows I am not capable
of cruelty, though there I found myself a passive
medium of the most unspeakable cruelty to my
own parents and brothers and sisters. If the
other thing had been cruel and vile, I cannot but
believe that I should have had some inkling.
That I behaved rashly, that in very truth I i lost
my head,' I was intensely conscious. But that I
had wronged Emma, I could not believe. All
that was best in me was eager for her good.
I had determined — impulsively perhaps — to
wrap my life round hers. I was going to devote
my whole time and energies in furthering her
happiness. I have often wished since that I had
told you of my feelings towards Emma.

" One day after I had been five weeks in this
place we were exercising in the yard. There was
an unusual warmth in the air for November. I
looked up at the pale rim of sky above the roofs.
I thought inevitably of the sky above the heath,
and I remembered a certain night when I had
seen Emma's face among the fruit trees in the
Lemaires' garden. The air had the tender feel-
ing that suggests that Nature is imparting a
gentle caress upon the brow of all humanity, and
as though we were all being drawn closer together
by this act. It suddenly occurred to me that if I

PETER'S LETTER 209

could only convince myself that mine was , a
venial offense, it would be easier to help my
people ; that the mute anguish which I knew they
suffered might become less. I might be able to
find myself again, and to believe that my individ-
uality was identical to what it was before the
trial.

" For now let me set down a terrifying fact.
No man is capable of withstanding this black
magic of the law. It mesmerizes, blinds, and
destroys one. Even if I had been entirely inno-
cent but had been found guilty, I could not have
escaped that paralyzing sense of being placed
outside the pale. It is not like being condemned
by human beings but like being exorcised by the
chilling verdict of perpetuity.

" It seems to represent the opinion of all the
inhuman ghosts who have ever dared the boards
of history, with its ponderous solemnity, its
medieval appanages, its uncompromising atten-
tion to meticulous phrasing, its ice-cold insistence
upon the letter of precedent and tradition. It
picks you up, looks right through you, tears out
your heart, and throws you aside — a thing that
can never find itself again, a thing that will
always be afraid of its own shadow.

" And this prison is full of these husks, these
gray bodies mesmerized into the belief that they

210 THE QUEBRILS

have lost their soul. I see around me their white
faces, grinning pitiably in a kind of weak obedi-
ence to an elemental fate. It was in the con-
templation of them that my own revolt began.
With almost a sense of satisfaction I realized
that I could pity them even more than I pitied
myself. And then I knew that something of me
in any case was as it was before the trial. And I
fought for that thing with all my might I
reasoned that if I had that faculty I probably
had other faculties. I yearned to help them, and
so by this means I gradually began to reinstate
myself. And it was partly under the influence
of this revelation that I began to write these
thoughts down.

" Other convictions crowd upon me, and one
central fact which I could hardly realize when
living at Chessilton Heath. I sometimes had
vague suspicions of it when working at the Settle-
ment at Hammersmith, but here I feel it estab-
lished beyond dispute. It is this : The majority
of people are unhappy, Tony. One may say that
in the position I find myself I am not an un-
prejudiced observer, but I am not judging by the
pale ghosts who surround me here. I am speak-
ing from an acquired experience and from obser-
vation. And the reflection is appalling. I
italicize the word majority, because that is the

PETER'S LETTER 211

whole point of the indictment. If a few people
were unhappy, or even a fairly large minority,
it might be explicable ; but think of this — Here
we have the whole of human society evolved
through millions of years of suffering, and sacri-
fice, and love. We have the experience of
millions of men and races. We have the vast
stores of their labors to help us, the comfort of
their faiths, the revelations of their teachers and
our own. We have the benefit of the restless
strivings of reformers, artists, seers. And with
all this, what have we built? — a house of Pear!
" We may build a little nest at the top, like
our home at Ghessilton Heath. We may be
happy ourselves, but down beneath is that vast
groaning basement of despair, and all the dark
rooms of misery and hopelessness, where Fear
stalks exultantly. Sometimes he even comes up
and bares his yellow fangs at us, and we shrink
together, mesmerized. And often we go down
and grope our way into the dark rooms, murmur-
ing to these others :

" « It >b all right ! It >s all right ! >
" And we distribute our little doles of soup,
and soap, and patent pills, but we do not drive
out Fear. The house is haunted like this prison.
Somewhere, at sometime, something has gone
wrong.

214 THE QUERBILS

dreams were ghoulish, and though I still do not
sleep well my dreams are sometimes beautiful
and comforting.

"And the other night I had a queer dream
about you, Tony. I was strolling along the cliff
at Babbicombe with you. I remember going
down that zigzag path to the shore, and we wan-
dered for some time and then sat down on the
sand. The sky was immense, and the narrow
line of sea that turgid gray-green color you see
in some of Whistler's water-aolors. The waves
were breaking in little angry ripples. And sud-
denly, close by us on the shore, I observed a
woman. She was tall and very beautiful, and
dressed in a shell-colored frock. She was gazing
out to sea, with her lips parted, and her eyes
reflecting the restless movement of the waters.

"There was something so appealing and
splendid about her I could not take my eyes from
her. At last I whispered to you :

" « Who is that? '

" And you were busy sketching in a note-book,
but replied casually :

" ' Oh, that 's the fore-shore woman.'

" ' The fore-shore woman ! ' I said. ' What do
you mean by a fore-shore woman? *

" You did not reply, and I added :

" ' Why does she gaze out to sea? '

PETER'S LETTER 215

" Then you said :

" i Did you ever see any one stand on the shore
and gaze at the land? '

"I had to acknowledge that the sea perhaps
had a greater appeal, and yon continued, sen-
tentiously :

" i The sea is something of an aristocrat. You
must remember that at one time the world was
all sea. That 's why the sea looks upon the land
as rather bourgeois, as a sort of nouveau arrivte,
and that's why the sea is always lashing the
skirts of the land with these white thongs.'

"'But who is the fore-shore woman?' I in-
sisted.

" ' The fore-shore woman is the only thing he
is afraid of,' you replied. € You see he made the
love light in her eyes. That 's why he does n't
overrun the land. He knows that if he has once
made the love light he dare n't destroy it. And
every year he becomes less and less. He 's wear-
ing himself out with anger, and his own mad love
of her. For it is n't for him the love light was
created/

" * Who was it created for then? '

" ' Oh, some thug way over the other side of
his horizon.' And you laughed.

" i Tony,' I said, * you are keeping something
back from me. I seem to know her. I have seen

216 THE QUERRILS

those eyes before, either in this life or in some
previous existence. I must know her. Who is
she?'

" But you merely shrugged your shoulders, and
rubbing a portion of your sketch down with the
ball of your thumb you repeated :

" ' She 's the fore-shore woman ! '

" How much older I seem now than you, Tony !
I am an old man and you will always be a boy,
wiping out a sketch with the ball of your thumb.
Sometimes these queer dreams come to me and
help me ; but for the most part I live among un-
certain realities, I live among uncertain reali-
ties"

This sentence waa repeated, and the letter came
to an abrupt stop.

CHAPTER XIII

TONY IN BEQUEST

IT surprised many people that the Querrils did
not leave Chessilton Heath. The general
view was that in such cases it is better to clear
out and make a fresh start elsewhere. The affair
created considerable discussion and a pretty
broad social cleavage. Many families cut them
definitely, but the majority remained loyal, and
their more intimate friends treated them with a
greater show of affection than ever. The ortho-
dox opinion was expressed by Sir Phillip Low-
ring, the local brewer and art patron. He said
to his wife :

" I should n't cut them, my dear, but I
should n't be too friendly. Old Querril is not a
bad sort in his way. A man can't help having a
profligate son. There 's usually a black sheep in
every family."

Those who knew them well knew that to move
would be the last thing they would be likely to

217

218 THE QUERRILS

do. It would be disloyal to Peter, a betrayal of
their most sacred sentiments, a confession that
they could not endure "the instruments of
torture."

It was a relief when the tennis court could be
dismantled, but the photographs of Peter in his
velvet suit, his sailor suit, in his many other cos-
tumes, remained conspicuously in evidence.
Some one eventually folded up the gray flannel
trousers, and put them away in a drawer, and the
box of charcoal was closed and put in a cup-
board with the pipes, but everything else re-
mained identically the same, f rofn the unfinished
painting of " Spring " to the butterfly-net and
the ghost-like overall awaiting its owner.

And on the days when visitors were allowed to
visit the prison, Mrs. Querril would put on her
best black satin frock ( it is always well to dress
in your best when visiting a prison), and she
would keep herself remarkably well in hand.
She would peer at the ghostly and almost un-
recognizable Peter through two rows of iron bars
and always began with the same remark :

"It won't be long, darling. Everything is
waiting for you. Everything will be just the
same when you come home."

The conversations were extraordinarily diffi-
cult and embarrassing. The really big things

TONY IN REQUEST 219

could not be talked about. It was far worse than
talking on a telephone. The dialogue consisted
mostly of scrappy bits of information about the
family and friends, and a brave show on Peter's
part of being quite comfortable and cared for.
It was almost a relief to both sides when the
warder gave the signal that timje was up.

But during the ensuing winter both Mr. and
Mrs. Querril aged considerably. Mr. Querril's
stoop became more pronounced, his movements
fussier and jerkier, and his conversations more
discursive and meandering. And his wife began
to develop that symptom which characterizes
many elderly people — of living almost exclu-
sively in the past. It was as though her mind
had stopped in that fatal October. She was the
only member of the family who was allowed
occasionally to break down when some little
symbol of association became too poignant. And
after the first flush of this revived grief, she
would begin to talk quite openly about Peter,
but always of the past.

She would tell her friends little stories of
Peter when he was a small boy, or quote some
quaint saying of his when quite a baby. And

220 THE QUBRRILS

this did not seem to distress her. In these moods
she seemed to be able to pull down the shutter
over these present terrible happenings.

They went through those months broken-
hearted and silently disconsolate, each one
struggling to bear the burden cheerfully " for
the sake of the others." They abolished games
and the Sunday evening music, but occasionally
in a mood which almost amounted to bravado
they would all go and sit in Peter's studio and
talk or read, and on one or two occasions experi-
mented with the gramophone, but on one of these
occasions Mrs. Querril broke down, and they did
not play it again. When Mrs. Querril had dried
her eyes, she said to Aunt Lena, who happened
to be staying there at the time :

" He was such a boy for fruit, my dear. Do
you remember that occasion when old Sir George
Bulbridge found him in his orchard eating his
apples, and Sir George came up and said very
sarcastically : * Oh ! and may I ask why you are
eating my apples? ' and Peter said without any
hesitation : * Yes, sir — for medical reasons. '
And it was quite true. He was only eight at
that time, and you know what boys are; he had
had some trouble, and the doctor had told him he
must eat all the fruit he could. Oh, dear! Oh,
dear J He was n't such 3 b&d old fellow, old Sir

TONY IN REQUEST 221

George; he told the story against himself after-
wards. I did n't know him. I only got to hear
it through the Tracys, those picture-gallery peo-
ple over at Clemin-Stratton. They were so
amused! ' Medical reasons'! Peter was al-
ways like that ! "

Christmas, more like a chapter from the Inqui-
sition than a week of festival, came and went,
and the months crawled by. The Treves Settle-
ment ceased to exisi It never survived the pub-
lic scandal brought upon it by Peter's case. All
sorts of wild rumors regarding it were spread
broadcast and even got into the press. Abuse of
it came from those who had benefited by its ac-
tivities, as well as from people who knew nothing
about it. The gentle Mrs. Basingstoke closed
the place down and went up to Leeds, where she
continued her good work on identically the same
lines. She regretted parting with the Querrils,
and the Parthian shaft, which sprang to her lips
when she said good-by to Rodney: "Good-by,
Mr. Querril. If you had taken my advice. If
you hadn't interfered . . ." was never spoken.
Instead she held his hand and said :

" I 'm grieved that our work together is over.
But don't lose heart. You boys, all the three of
you, are young. You 've got all the world before
you."

222 THE QUERRILS

The Querrils never heard from her again.
When she died three years later, as the resnlt of
an accident toAer spine, cansed by being knocked
down in the street by a drunken carter in the
suburbs of Leeds, she was a comparatively poor
woman. She had given all her life and money
to the poor, because she could think of nothing
better to do. And she passed quite unnoticed.

Ill

Two events of great importance happened to
the Querrils in the spring. The first was the
arrival of Tony MacDowell. He came back at
the beginning of May and went straight down
to Chessilton Heath. His presence acted like
a tonic. There was no reserve about Tony, no
family stranglehold upon his power of individ-
ual expression. He went straight in to Mrs.
Querril and gripped her hand and said :

" Mrs. Querril, I was fair dazed to hear about
Peter. The thing simply got me. Don't you
believe it; there's some crazy mistake about
all this. Peter's a white man, through and
through. I 'd go through hell for him."

No one else would dream of talking to Mrs.
Querril like this. In fact, no one else would
think of broaching the subject of Peter at all,

TONY IN REQUEST 223

but Mrs. Querril did not seem to mind. On the
contrary, her face flushed slightly with pleasure.
She pressed his hand and murmured :

"Mr. MacDowell! Mr. MacDowell!"

She did not cry, as the rest of the family
dreaded. She gazed meekly out of the window
as though she were suddenly confronted with
some new and encouraging aspect of the case.
Tony was persuaded to stay, and his visit was a
complete success.

Of course there was no idea of his being a kind
of substitute for Peter, but he did quite uncon-
sciously to a certain extent enact that part. He
was a boy in th& house, of about the same age,
and Peter was fond of him. He did the same
kind of work, and entertained them all day with
his quaint philosophy and his unexpected way
of expressing himself. He was quite impervious
to the " instruments of torture. " He talked con-
tinually about Peter and his work, in a matter-
of-fact way, as though Peter was away staying
with friends. And Mrs. Querril liked to listen
to him. The striking difference in their mental
attitude was that Mrs. Querril would only talk
of Peter's past, and Tony would only talk of
Peter's future.

And it did not seem sacrilege for Tony to use
Peter's studio. Peter would like it. Besides,

224 THE QUERRILS

Tony was principally a portrait painter, which
seemed to make just a comfortable difference.
He painted portraits of Evelyn, and Mrs. Le-
maire (Magda was not well enough to sit). He
did odd jobs about the house, mended the lawn-
mower, washed the dogs, " jollied " the family
when they were down, put them wise on the suf-
frage question which was then raging, of which
he was a keen advocate, criticized their friends
and neighbors, beat them at tennis, gave Mr.
Querril advice about the way to conduct a liter-
ary review, fetched parcels from the station, and
acted as a veritable deus ex machina on the night
when Magda's baby was born.

Which brings us to the second important
event. There is something about the clamorous
arrival of a baby which is irresistible. It may
be said in some respects to resemble an aeroplane
— in that, although we may have seen thousands
in our time, whenever we hear one we have to
rush to the window. All babies are remarkable,
in fact they are all more remarkable than any
other babies, but Magda's baby was of course
more remarkable than the most remarkable baby
that ever yelled its way into popular imagina-

TONY IN REQUEST 225

tion. It was a girl, and of course was called
Jenny after Mrs. Querril. If the alternative dis-
aster had happened to it, it was to have groped
with the problems of life under the name of
George. As an antidote to the febrile atmos-
phere of the household at that time, Jenny was
immense. She cared not for Querrils or Capels,
nor for tradition or sentiment, nor even for the
welfare of a dissolute uncle slinking in prison.
She arrived with a self-centered determination
to get a grip on life. She took stage-center with
the assurance of a popular musical-comedy ar-
tist In comparison, Ptolemy the Second was
an altruist. For anything not concerning a bot-
tle or her immediate material demands, she had
no use.

A new light seemed to come into Mrs. Quer-
riPs eyes. She went backwards and forwards
between the various bedrooms, examining first
the child, then the mother, then the things she
had been so laboriously making in anticipation
of this event. Before being fully conscious in
the morning she would again feel diffused with
the prescience of some pleasant experience.
And when she did awake her first thought was :
% "Yes. It is quite true. Now there is an-
other on$ . . . little Jenny. How sweet she
looked when she laughed at my ha,nd-mirror yes-

226 THE QUERRILS

terday. I wonder whether Martin has his cam-
era down here. Her eyes are lighter than Mag-
da's. I suppose they 're more like John's. But
any one can see she 's a Querril."

When John arrived a fortnight later on a spe-
cial " compassionate leave," he had to be repri-
manded and called to order. He obviously knew
nothing about babies. He tossed it up into the
air and caught it, and made such an incredible
noise, shouting and singing, that they were terri-
fied. He held it in such an awkward way that
Mrs. Querril was convinced he would drop it, or
make it cry.

It must be said for Miss Capel that she took
all this in very good part. She blinked sur-
prisingly at the owner of the clear gray eyes
and the boisterous manners, as though she recog-
nized that he was a god with some peculiar au-
thority to interfere with her autocratic existence.
She gripped handfuls of his face, and gurgled
with satisfaction when the mouth made abortive
efforts to bite her.

Lieutenant Capel had only three days' leave,
and it was a very crowded time, but on his last
evening after dinner he suddenly took Tony by
the lapel of his coat and said :

" I say, MacDowell, come down the garden
with me. I want to have a chat."

TONY IN REQUEST 227

When they had reached the shrubbery at the
other end of the garden, and pipes had been duly
filled and lighted, Gapel said :

"You were away at the time of the trial,
were n't you, MacDowell? "

" Yes, I was in Italy."

" I was there two days. The second day, and
the day of the conviction."

John hesitated, and then interjected :

"I suppose you haven't any time on your
hands? "

" My time 's my own, thank God ! If there 's
anything I can do . . ."

" It 's like this. I can't do much. I 'm so tied
up. But there were things about the trial that
struck me as quaint There was a man named
Castro — "

" I know, the Dago ! "

" Yes. That man would sell his own mother
for a quart of gin. I did n't believe a word of
his evidence. Jim Troon 's not much better. I
saw them enter a pub together immediately after
the result was announced. I didn't like their
manners. There was something oily. They
were much too pleased about it all. I got some
one on their track. They both went on the blind
for days. They spent money like dirt. One
night they had a quarrel, and Castro said some-

228 THE QUfiBRILS

thing about blabbing if the other man didn't
hand over some # more brass. Then they made it
up, and Troon went back to Hammersmith, and
Castro disappeared. And we can't find any
trace of him at all. He probably took ship some-
where, but we can't find any seaman registered
under that name, and we can get nothing out of
Troon."

The gray face of Tony MacDowell appeared
watchful and alert above his pipe.

" Do you want me to track Castro? Is that
the idea, Capel? "

" I don't want to convert you into a bally de-
tective, but I 'd like to get hold of Mr. Castro."

Tony looked up at the white gables of the
house. Then he said:

" I take it you have some idea about this? "

" Yes, it 's quite a simple-idea. I don't believe
that Emma Troon was under* sixteen ! "

" Gee ! I 'd give ten years of my life to prove
that ! I wish they 'd let me know. Heading the
account it all seemed such plain sailing. It
never occurred — that there could be any loop-
hole — in an English court, with all those big-
wigs ! There was the birth-certificate and all."

TONY IN REQUEST 229

" I know. I have no definite grounds to go on.
It 's simply an instinct. You had to be at the
trial to appreciate it. In the first place, the girl
looks more like eighteen or nineteen. Of course
she 's Italian stock. Then her father is a moral
pervert, and all the witnesses they called looked
as though they ought to be in jail. And then
there 's Peter. Is Peter the sort of chap who
would seduce a little girl? Of course he ac-
knowledges that he slept the night with her, and
that he had had something to drink. But you
know what he is. His own lawyer could n't get
out of him the proper details of that night. He
said he had been a blackguard and lost his head.
Even in court he did n't say what his lawyer had
put him up to say, although he put him into the
box on purpose. He was an appalling witness.
He talked about the Russian ballet, and all that
sort of thing. You never heard such stuff ! Of
Course the jury immediately jumped to the con-
clusion that he was a moral pervert. Any refer-
ence to art or the emotions will convince a Brit-
ish jury that you 're a wrong 'un."

Tony followed this impression of John's with
little intermittent ejaculations of " My ! " Then
he gripped the other's hand and said :

"Listen now, John; you've no idea how I
appreciate your telling me all this. I was al-

230 THE QUERRILS

ways dead sure that Peter was a white man, but
my! an English court of law! . . . Well, now,
just give me Troon's address, and I '11 get right
on to this."

The lieutenant's eyes twinkled.

" I had an idea you M be a good man for this
job! I believe I hear the baby."

The lieutenant sprang down the embankment
and ran across the garden. And Tony watched
him go. A few minutes later he heard his invig-
orating laugh in the little room above the cherry
tree. A warm glow of light irradiated from the
window. The cries of the child subsided. He
thought he heard Magda's voice. A nightingale
started the prelude to its song, in the hedge be-
yond the Lemaires' garden. And Tony contin-
ued sitting there on the wooden bench, and smok-
ing. He never took his eyes from the little win-
dow. It looked like an illuminated nest up in
the trees. And a queer expression came to his
plain features. He was thinking very hard.
But who could tell what would be the thoughts
of a superphilosopher at such a moment?

CHAPTER XIV

THE WRESTLING MATCH

ON the following day Tony MacDowell van-
ished. When he announced his intention
of going, there was a chorus of dismay, but he
said:

" If o, I must go. I was getting on fine here
till this baby came, and now I feel I 'm super-
seded. I 'm just jealous."

And Magda said:

"Oh! Tony, you mustn't go! What will
Jenny do without you? "

" Believe me, Jenny 's as good at looking after
number one as Tony MacD is ! "

" But where are you going, Tony MacD? "

" I 'm going up to that crazy little hamlet of
London to see whether father has taken home
the washing."

" You 're an enigma, Tony MacD. I believe

you 're just going up there to enjoy yourself.

We bore you already."

281

232 THE QUERRILS

" Sure. I 'm bored stiff — at having to go."

"Couldn't you send father a prepaid reply
telegram to find out whether he 's taken home the
washing? "

" The washing would n't be worth the price of
the telegram. Besides, I've got to find father
first. He 's probably in one of these fashionable
British rendezvous — the booze joint"

" You '11 come back soon, Tony MacD ? "

The boy looked at her with his queer eyes, and
the playful twist of the conversation seemed to
desert him. He hung his head and said sol-
emnly :

"I'll always be there when you want me,
lady."

The departure of Tony was almost overlooked
that evening, through the effect caused by the
startling news which Rodney brought down with
him. Since the demise of the Treves Settlement,
the surplus energies of Rodney had been swept
into the vortex of the woman's suffrage move-
ment. He was always attending meetings and
discussions, and going to breakfasts given to suf-
fragettes released from jail. He talked at home
about the activities of the various societies, and
about their leaders and organizers. Among oth-
ers he talked considerably about Ebba Janssen,
a Swedish girl.

THE WRESTLING MATCH 233

It would be idle to pretend that the rest of the
family — in the midst of the absorbing episode
of the arrival of Jenny — paid any detailed at-
tention to this information, nor that it occurred
to any of them that the name of Ebba Janssen
stood for anything more than an automaton in
connection with Rodney's new-found interests.
But on this evening, according to a recognized
Querrilian tradition affecting the imparting of
important news, Rodney arrived home looking
very flushed, got hold of Martin, and took him up
to his room. And Martin came down a little
later, and took Magda on one side. And Magda
told Evelyn, and then the two girls broke the
news to their mother that Rodney was engaged !

And then Mrs. Querrill went upstairs to Rod-
ney alone, and kissed him and cried a little, and
said:

u I hope you '11 be happy, darling."

And while she was upstairs, Martin broke the
news to Mr. Querril, who said :

" God bless my soul ! You don't say so ! "

He blew his nose, and added :

"Well, this is a surprise! I*d no idea. A
Swedish girl! We must ask her down for the
week end."

When he saw Rodney, he shook his hand and
spluttered :

234 THE QUERRILS

" My dear boy, well, well ! Pdno idea. I 'd
no idea at all ! "
Then he asked rather plaintively :
" May we . . . are you asking her down? "
" Yes. I 'm bringing her down on Saturday."

On Saturday Ebba Janssen made her first ap-
pearance at Chessilton Heath. And the visit
could not be described as a success. For the first
time in the history of the family there appeared
the germs of a cleavage. The mere suggestion
that such a thing could happen was in itself
sufficient to cause consternation.

Magda and Evelyn did their very best, but they
could not like Ebba Janssen.

She was a tall girl, older than Rodney, with a
round smooth face and rather colorless eyes.
She had a certain dignity of carriage and pretty
fair hair, but there was a hardness and austerity
about her which the girls found disconcerting.

They kissed her effusively when she arrived,
and she seemed rather surprised. She looked
clever in a narrow way, but without humor or
any broad feeling of sympathy. She was appar-
ently fond of Rodney, over whom she had al-

THE WRESTLING MATCH 235

ready acquired a kind of proprietary air, and
she seemed to resent the fussy and endearing
claims of the rest of the family to him.

She admired the garden, and the heath, and
the baby, in the same staccato tones. She talked
impassively about hygiene, and politics, the pro-
gram of the Women's Party, the excellence of
German municipal organization, the superiority
of everything Swedish, the appalling condition
of English slums, the ignorance and viciousness
of the English lower classes, the way to cook
food so as to extract the utmost nutriment out
of it, the way to organize education in the inter-
ests of the State, the way to produce the moral
citizen.

She frowned disapprovingly at Decimus, who
came in during the afternoon, and was appar-
ently so disgusted with his extravagant way of
talking that she took Rodney's arm and strolled
away to the other end of the garden.

" Is n't it awful ! " said Evelyn to Magda, after
she had gone. " She has no color ! "

Poor Evelyn ! She was all color, and she felt
it very much. Magda could not deny that she
was disappointed. She was not the sort of girl
she had dreamed of for Rodney, but — Jenny was
crying, she must go to her.

236 THE QUEBRILS

Mrs. Querril remarked dubiously :

" Oh, I don't know, my dear. I 'm sure she 's
very sweet."

When Rodney had gone with her to the station,
Mr. Querril rubbed his hands and exclaimed :

" Well, well ... a very charming girl ! Very
charming indeed ! "

Nobody answered him, and they all knew that
he knew that they knew that he was lying.

Martin said nothing, but he went out and dug
very viciously in the vegetable garden.

Decimus delivered a dissertation to Mr. Quer-
ril on the European situation :

"That Autocrat — Democracy! He is get-
ting nearer and nearer. He wants to lay his
hands on our babies, our bath towels, even our
cabbages are not safe. They have got to be
cooked in a certain way. I should never be sur-
prised if, as a prelude, he doesn't plunge the
whole of Europe into war. That will be simply
like bursting in the front door. When he gets
inside the house, his patent carpet-sweepers and
disinfectants will be overpowering. The Teu-
tons hate us because, although we never get up
in the morning, we 're always getting the early
wown. And when we 've got the early worm we
never know what to do with it. The German

THE WRESTLING MATCH 237

would convert it into quite an acceptable liver-
sausage."

" Oh, rubbish ! Decimus," laughed Mr. Querril.
" You 're always trotting out that old bogey of
the German menace. The Germans are much
too sensible. Too material, if you like. It
wo.uld n't pay."

"None of these things are thought out on
paper, Querril. No man, or even group of men,
sit down and think them out. They 're only the
instruments of herd-instincts, and the underswell
of humanity. And there is only one movement
at the present day that is irresistible. That is
the movement of democracy, which is another
name for social evolution."

" Well, what has the German menace got to do
with democracy? "

" Everything. If you had a sore on your body
and it came to a head — excuse my disgusting
metaphor, it 's the only one that occurs to me —
you would say to that sore, 'Get on or get out.'
As I see it, the German sore is reaching a head.
And underneath is the body of humanity that is
fed up, absolutely fed up to the teeth, that is, in
fact, rotten with sores. The majority of people
are underpaid, underfed, and overworked, wor-
ried, and they mean to demand their pound of

238 THE QUERRILS

flesh. This Prussian sore will burst from the
inside. All these Zabern gentlemen will simply
be used as a pick to break open the door of the
house. They themselves will run down the steep
place into the sea and be lost in the underswell."

Mr. Querril laughed, and dug his friend in the
ribs.

"You're a disconcerting old pessimist," he
said. " I must go and cut that hedge ! "

III

That same evening a tug delivered a bag of
mail to H.M.S. Alcibiades. In it was a letter
addressed to Lieut. J. Capel. That gentleman
was at the moment playing deck-hockey. He
broke away from the game at the sound of the
bugle, expecting a letter from Magda — as he
had not heard from her since the previous day.
To his disappointment it was in a strange hand-
writing. He opened it, and perceived the signa-
ture of Tony MacDowell. And this is what Tony
wrote:

"My dear J. C:

" I have had a busy week on this detective
stunt without much success. So far the Dago
eludes me entirely. Mrs. Troon and I are as
thick as thieves. I gave her a pound. I think I
could have bought her body and soul for ten

THE WRESTLING MATCH 239

cents. But she is a complete dud. I think she 's
on the square all right, but she knows nothing at
all. It 's the earlier part of Jim's life that might
prove interesting. However, I got certain infor-
mation out of her, and have established one curi-
ous fact. That is that for years Jim has been
spending about thirty shillings or two pounds a
week more than he earns ! I figured it out this
way. I found out from Mrs. Troon what he al-
lows her, and what he buys and so on. Then I
made a good friend of a Mr. Bennett at a sweet
spot called ' The Cuttle Fish.' I followed Jim
about for days and checked his drinks. I col-
laborated with friend Bennett over the matter,
and he struck a fair average for his booze ticket.
I next got together with a nobleman who over-
sees the stone-masons' yard where Jim works.
Be was not squeamish about informing me of
Jim's weekly emolument. (He wasn't exactly
on the water wagon himself ! They are a pretty
bunch down this way!) Curse this English
coinage ! It fair drives me crazy ! but I managed
to arrive at the computation I have mentioned.
I next tackled Jim himself. I told him I was
from an attorney who had information that some
money had been left Castro by an aunt in South
Africa, and could he put me on to him. The
only answer to this was a challenge to fight. I

240 THE QUERRILS

did n't fancy getting mixed up in a scrap with an
express train falling over an embankment, so I
equivocated on this point. I managed to buy
him off, but I couldn't get him to talk. Mrs.
Troon says that if she mentions Castro he
throws the furniture at her. He was certainly
in a right and proper fury with me at the men-
tion. Jim and Castro have evidently had a
pretty useful quarrel.

" I next sought out Emma Troon. I found her
at Grete's flat, as the detective who was last em-
ployed by the Querrils said she was. It was in
the middle of the afternoon, and I regret to say
the lady was lightly inebriated. She was drink-
ing Ktimmel when I got there and was absolutely
at a loose end. I don't think she knew anything
about Castro. Grete was away, and she seemed
to me any man's plaything — apart from the
drink. She was living the high life, and hon-
estly I believe she 's already forgotten all about
Peter. He was only a stepping stone to more
alluring episodes. I agree with you. She's a
good nineteen. At her present rate she'll be
ninety next year. I mean to hang on here and
nose about. It drives me crazy to think that
Peter should have been sacrificed to all this city
front slush. Yours sincerely,

"Tony MacD,"

THE WRESTLING MATCH 241

It was nearly a month later that John Capel,
returning from manoeuvers in the North Sea,
found among his mail at Rosyth five telegrams.
They were all from Tony MacDowell, and they
were all couched in very similar language. They
merely implied that Tony was on the track of
something, that he very urgently wanted to see
John, and that he was to be found at the Mid-
land Hotel, Glasgow. Owing to certain mysteri-
ous reasons, all leave was stopped, or very much
curtailed, to the navy. By exercising great cir-
cumlocution John managed to secure forty-eight
hours. It is only a few hours' run to Glasgow,
and he wired to Tony that he would be there that
night.

He found the American boy pacing the vesti-
bule of the hotel and looking anxious and drawn.
John gripped his hand, and they retired to a se-
cluded corner of the palm court. Without any
unnecessary preamble Tony said :

" I 've got him right here."

John's face lighted up with excitement.

" Good man ! " he exclaimed. " Tell me all
about it."

" I got hold of that fellow you put on to track
Jim and Castro around London, and I pumped

242 THE QUERRILS

him dry of anything he 'd seen op heard. There
was nothing doing really except the night when
he overheard part of the quarrel, and Castro
threatened to blab- The only little illuminating
thing he heard apart from that, was a remark of
Jim's when he said, 'All right, you can bloody
well go back to Pannantoga ! '

" It was a bit thin, but it was all I had to go on.
I got busy at the shipping offices, trying to find

out how a man would go to the place.

I 'd never heard of it. I found out that it was an
island somewhere in the Southern Pacific.
There was no direct route. He might go to
Australia for a start, or he might go through
'Frisco or Vancouver. I worried around Mill-
wall for a couple of days, and then I got a kind
of conviction he 'd be more likely to go 'Frisco
way. I went up to Liverpool and hung around
the docks, and visited shipping offices, and got
on every one's nerves. One evening, some guy in
a saloon where I'd gone on the off-chance got
talking to me, and I put my proposition to him.
And he says, ' Why, if I wanted to go, I 'd get
aboard one of those Jessamine boats what sails
from Glasgow to Iquique. And from there
there 's a dandy service of fruit boats with all the
South Sea Islands.' I don't know how it was,
but this suggestion got me. I felt that that was

THE WRESTLING MATCH 243

the way Castro would go. Anyway, one gets
cold feet sitting around. So I bundled along to
Glasgow right away. I found there was a ship
sailing for Iquique in three days' time. I hung
about the docks there, and went up the Clyde
and visited all the pubs in Greenock and Gou-
rock, and then back to Glasgow. My God!
What a place!

" I was in a fever of impatience to get a move
on somewhere, and it all seemed like hunting for
a scarf-pin you've dropped in the desert. On
the night before the boat sailed for Iquique I vis-
ited a downtown music hall near the docks. I
was feeling dead-beat. I just went there in the
vague hope of seeing my man. I 'd got him vis-
ualized to a hair from your friend's description
and from Mrs. Troon's.

"I sat there watching the show. The same
old stunts we get delivered across to us every-
where. Comedians, bicyclists, baritone-bar-
maids, and all the rest of it. And then a little
Jap came on. His name was Yoshio Hiroshige.
He was a wrestler. His manager came on and
announced that they would pay a hundred
pounds to any man that Hiroshige couldn't
throw in five minutes! Golly! it was rather
amusing. I got interested in the damn thing.
Pour men came up, one after another — hefty

244 THE QUERRILS

great dockhands and fighters. They hardly
seemed to get their stance, before Yoshio had got
a grip on them in some funny way and down they
went. The honse rocked with laughter. And I
laughed myself. And then suddenly the laugh-
ter died on my lips. Walking up the plank an
to the stage and grinning like an organ-grinder
ivas — my Dago, Castro!

" I 'd have sworn to him in a million. He 'd
got the weal on his left cheek, Mrs. Troon had
told me about. He was the exact height and
build, and he had the funny springy walk.

"He took his stance and every one laughed,
expecting to see him go down like the rest. The
Jap made his spring, but Castro seemed to draw
himself in like a great ball. The Jap's clutch
missed and Castro's arms shot out, and Toshio
only just missed being hugged himself. There
was a gasp of surprise. Castro evidently knew
something about the game. He grinned, and
sidled like a great cat. Then he made a spring
that Yosh countered but didn't enjoy. They
broke away again. The referee announced that
one minute was up. Everybody got excited.
This was going to be some game. They squared
up and made a simultaneous spring. There was
a real dandy mix up, and they broke away again
and the referee announced two minutes. Yosh

THE WRESTLING MATCH 245

was getting a little anxious, you could see. He
looked a nasty little customer, but Castro did n't
look pleasant either. He wasn't grinning, but
he was snarling and saying insulting things —
I should imagine — under his breath. Suddenly
the Jap whipped in and got a lock around the
Dago's knees, and brought him down. They
rolled in a heap on the ground, and I thought our
man was finished. But he did some funny busi-
ness round the other's neck, like a dog shaking a
rat. When eventually they fell apart again four
minutes was up ! Everybody was fair crazy with
excitement, yelling mostly to the Dago to hold out.
The thing got me, so I 'd clean forgotten what I
was there for. But suddenly I felt scared. I
was looking at the Jap, and I noticed something
about his eyes I did n't like. Castro had hurt
him — I was sure of it. His little slits of eyes
seemed to narrow to a knife edge, but, by God !
they looked dangerous. I don't know how it
was, but I felt it all coming. I felt like yelling
out: ' Castro, get out of the ring, you bloody
fool ! He 's going to kill you ! ' But my tongue
seemed glued to the roof of my mouth. I could
only gaze. I sat there like a half-baked clam and
watched the whole thing happen as I knew it was
going to. You could n't follow it in detail. It
was a sudden whirlwind of flying arms and legs

246 THE QUERRILS

and twisting bodies, and then suddenly —
Bang! Down Castro went, like a brick falling
off a building, with the Jap on top of him.

" I whipped round behind. Castro was lying
unconscious. They took him away to the in-
firmary and I followed. I pretended I was a
friend, and got to speak to the house surgeon.
They examined him and said his back was
broken."

Tony's upper lip was twitching, and he dabbed
the end of a cigarette in an ash-tray.

" And there he lay for five days unconscious.
The doc says he may die any minute, or he may
live for ten years. Yesterday he opened his eyes.
He seems just conscious of what 's going on, but
no one can get him to talk. I got them to shunt
him into a private ward, and this morning I tried
to tackle him. I thought the best game would
be to come straight to the point. I knew he
was a vindictive case, and that he had quarreled
with Jim. So I said, ' Listen here, Mr. Castro,
do you want that hundred pounds you nearly
won the other night? If you do, it's yours if
you 11 just give me a little information about
Jim Troon.'

" He stared at me blankly, and up at the ceil-
ing, and I repeated my request several times in
diverse forms. At last he said, * We was ship-

THE WRESTLING MATCH 247

mates.' He shut his eyes as though that
clinched matters. But I was desperate. I was
afraid he 'd die, and perhaps he knew something
and he might save the Querrils. I repeated the
request, and offered to make it two hundred
pounds. And then, by Golly! Do you know
what he did? I was holding my head near to
catch his answer, and he spat in my face, and
closed his eyes again. . . . And that 's how the
case stands at present, John Capel."

CHAPTER XVi

AN ISLAND STORY

AT the end of July, Mrs. Querril came to
her island. It was not an undiscovered
island in a land of dreams. It belonged as a
matter of fact to a cigar-merchant, and it was
at the mouth of a Cornish river. It was a
diminutive affair, less than a quarter of a mile
long, and not more than a hundred yards wide at
its widest. It consisted principally of a large
modern castellated house built on rock, three
cottages, a beach, and a strip of land covered
with coarse grass and shrubs. The biggest
thing about it was the rent demanded by the
cigar-merchant for the month of August. The
payment was only justified by some one des-
perately in need of being cut off from the world,
and it seemed too alluring an attraction to the
Querrils to resist if it could be managed at all.
Eventually a happy arrangement was come to,
by which Mr. Lemaire, Mr. Querril, and Decimus

24B

AN ISLAND STORY 249

shared the expenses each according to their
family and requirements. It was an ugly house,
•but commodious and very attractive in fine
weather.

If Peter bad been there it would have been
the nearest thing to Mrs. QuerriTs island dream
that she could reasonably expect to attain.
Even without Peter, it presented her with many
hours of distraction and happiness. Of course
there was no chance of John coming, but Magda
and the baby were of the party, and all the
Lemaires, including Cecil the schoolboy, and
Decimus, and there were several spare bedrooms,
even then, in case they were needed. The party
spent most of the day bathing, eating, sailing, or
sitting on the terrace out of the wind, reading
and talking. Occasionally they sailed or rowed
across to Angterroc — rather less than a mile —
which was their base of supplies, and their point
of communication with the outside world.
Nothing had been heard of Tony MacDowell since
he departed for " that crazy little hamlet of Lon-
don." The family were quite concerned about
him, and he had been written to twice and in-
vited to the island, but no answer had been
received.

"Perhaps he has gone back to the States,"
suggested Mr. Querril.

250 THE QUEBRILS

" He would never have gone without letting xm
know," replied Magda. „

" Do yon know anything about his people? "
asked Mr. Lemaire.

"I do," said Magda. "He has a married
brother much older than himself. He 's an en-
gineer at Buffalo. And he has an old mpther in
Michigan. You have to be a very special pal of
Tony's to get him to tell you about his mother.
He has a little locket with her portrait, which he
always wears concealed inside his waistcoat."

" H'm ! " grunted Mr. Querril. " They 're very
sentimental — the Americans — very sentimen-
tal ! Charming people but — sentimental ! "

Ebba Janssen — who was spending a week
with the family of her fianc£ — looked up with a
queer little smile.

" Yes," she said very slowly. " It is true. So
different to — the English ! "

And nobody had any idea whether she meant
it or not.

Mrs. Querril, who was busy on a garment for
Jenny, thought to herself :

" Dear me, I do hope Rodney will be happy
with that girl. She has such funny green eyes.
I really can't get fond of foreigners. I do wish
he had chosen a nice simple English girl, some
one like Annette or Joan. No, not Annette, of

AN ISLAND STORY 251

course. Annette is promised to my Peter. As I
always say to # him, i Everything will all be the
same, darling.' It must be nearly dinner-time.
I get quite hungry in this place."

They were sitting on the terrace at the time.
It had been a glorious day and the sun was going
down. Decimus was enjoying himself. The
embryo of a new book (in the Wedgwood Series)
was bubbling in his mind. It was to be called
" The Decameron of the Island." Ten people —
instead of escaping from a plague are escaping
from a passion — come to the island, and every
night they tell their story in turn and — well,
of course, the stories all prove to be delightfully
interdependent. Try as it may to do otherwise,
an island cannot escape romance. The sea has
made a frame for the little canvas. And any-
thing which is depicted on it must be a reflection
of its own movement.

"Things are bound to happen on an island.
They can't escape," thought Decimus, little
dreaming of the things which were at that mo-
ment preparing to happen on that particular
island. Every one had gone in to change for
dinner except Decimus and Mr. and Mrs.
QuerriL

252 THE QUERRILS

Decimus was gazing idly at the sea. A dinghy
about half way from the mainland was slopping
along languidly in the direction of the island.
Small boats often cruised about these waters, and
occasionally came right up to the shore and read
the dilapidated notice-board which said : " Visi-
tors are not allowed to land on the island.
Private property." Sometimes this notice was
respected and sometimes ignored. In this par-
ticular case the boat appeared to be making a
very business-like course for the little beach on
the south side of the house, where the most suc-
cessful landings were made.

Decimus remarked :

"Looks as though we're going to have a
visitor."

Mr. Querril was always amusing himself with
a telescope. He turned it on the dinghy and
replied :

"Oh, I don't expect they're coming here.
There are three people on board. ... It may
possibly be some of the stuff from the stores.
Radkin's, over at Angterroc, said he *d try and
send it if it came to-day."

The little boat became invisible, owing to the
elevation from which they were looking. In a
few minutes' time, however, Evelyn came out and
said:

AN ISLAND STORY 253

" There *s some one landing on the beach. I
saw them from my bedroom. It 's a man with
two boatmen."

She walked to the end of the terrace. There
was a winding stone staircase that had been cut
from the extreme edge down to the beach. Any
one coming up was not visible till he reached
the last few steps. Evelyn loitered by the
entrance, and suddenly she almost screamed :

" Why, it 's Tony ! "

The others were gradually collecting for din-
ner. The news was shouted all over the house.

" It 's Tony ! Tony has turned up ! "

The boys ran to their windows which over-
looked the terrace and cheered. Magda ran out
through the French windows of the drawing-
room. Both Mr. and Mrs. Querril got up and
walked towards the hero of this excitement.

Tony MacDowell walked slowly up the last
few steps of the stairway and on to the terrace.
He staggered along and held out his hand. His
face looked grayer than usual, and dark rings
encircled his eyes. He looked like a man dead
beat to the world. He groped his way towards
Mrs. Querril and made a brave attempt to smile.
The group surrounded him with cries of greeting,
and exclamations of surprise. Then they seemed
to all stop suddenly. There was something queer

254 THE QUERRILS

about Tony. He looked ill. Something had
happened. He held Mrs. QuerriPs hand and
seemed to experience a difficulty in getting his
speech. At last he said:

" I 've brought along some big news for you."

They all leaned eagerly forward, but no one
attempted to question him.

" Peter 's going to be released," he said.

There was an almost inaudible gasp of joy, and
every one instinctively turned to Mrs. Querril as
though recognizing that this was her show. But
the mother of Peter merely lowered her spectacles
and looked above them at the messenger. Then
tears started to her eyes, and her tongue seemed
to be moving noiselessly between her lips.

"They've found out," Tony went on, "that
the girl Emma Troon died years ago. This girl
... is not Emma Troon. Her real name is
Clara Castellani. She was nearly nineteen at
the time Peter . . . Gee! I'm afraid I feel a
bit queer, I . . ."

Ill

It was Martin who caught Tony. Several of
them carried him in and put him down on a bed
upstairs. An emergency bottle of brandy was
produced, and Mrs. Yardley got busy with her
array of hot-water bottles. But Tony was very

AN ISLAND STORY 255

shaky. He recovered his consciousness in a very
few minutes, but he lay there sleepily exhausted,
like a man who had done everything possible in a
cause and is indifferent to the result. It was de-
cided not to question him further. The news he
had brought was sufficient unto itself. It was
all-important, tremendous! Peter was to be
released! Peter was innocent! Peter would
come to the island! Everything would be as
usual !

Annette ran round the terrace. She felt she
must run. She ran dpwn the pathway at the
back of the house, where she was joined by both
the dogs. They found it somewhat dull on the
island with nothing to do but to bark at sea-
gulls — and when she exclaimed ;

" Potash darling, Peter is free ! My Peter is
free and innocent! Oh, Perlmutter, Peter is
coming back ! "

Both dogs barked with delight, and scampered
at her heels. It was apparently the most ecstatic
news they had heard for many a day. The three
of them did a round of the island in a world's
record time, making a noise that could surely be
heard on the mainland a mile away. When
Annette regained the house, she dashed upstairs.

The only person she could see on the landing
was Ebba, who had just come out of her room.

256 THE QUERRILS

" Ebba, Ebba," cried Annette. " Peter is free !
Peter is going to be released ! "

Ebba adjusted some little ornament at her
throat, and turned to the long mirror on the stair-
case.

" Really," she said. " That 's excellent ! I 'm
very glad."

Annette dashed away and into the room she
shared with Joan. Joan was standing there
looking flushed and pleased. Annette flung her
arms round her and kissed her. Then she threw
herself on the bed, and making strange noises
that were a mixture of growls, groans and joy,
she proceeded to bite the pillow.

"Whatever are you doing, darling?" said
Joan.

" Oh, God ! " growled Annette. " How I hate
that Swedish woman ! "

The family were dying for more news, but
nobody would think of disturbing Tony. He had
been given a light meal and put to bed. Accord-
ing to a rule of the island, every one was to go
to bed at ten o'clock. This rule was strictly
adhered to by every one except Mr. Querril who
usually turned in at half past, and Decimus —
who incidentally had proposed the rule and sug-

AN ISLAND STORY 257

gested a scheme of penalties for infringement —
and he usually went to bed about twelve. On
this occasion it was nearer one in the morning
that Decimus crept upstairs. His mind had been
much occupied and he had not noticed the time.
" The Decameron of the Island " was being fur-
nished with living episodes. " Things are bound
to happen on an island. They can't escape."

Decimus got quietly into bed and turned out
the light. He lay there ruminating for nearly
half an hour, when he was suddenly startled by
a gentle tap on the door. He sat up in bed and
heard his door open quietly.

" Who is that? " he called out.

A voice answered :

" Are you awake, Dess? I 'm just crazy for a
talk and a smoke ! "

"Tony! You ought not to be talking and
smoking, you ought to be asleep ! "

" Aw ! I 'm all right. I was just a bit jagged.
It was more the emotional strain of getting here
than anything I 'd been through."

He shut the door, and Decimus lighted a
candle. There was no electric light on the
island, which is only right and proper. Tony
pulled a paper packet of cigarettes out of his
dressing-gown pocket, and lighted one from the
candle.

258 THE QUEREILS

" I 'm getting a real live- wire at this detective
business/' he said. " I did n't know your room.
So I tracked round till I came across a pair of
fairy-like footgear, then I took a chance. It 's a
real good institution, this British institution of
hanging out your boots. It 's like nailing your
colors to the mast. When I go along the cor-
ridor of a hotel and see outside a door a large pair
of man's boots and next to it a dainty pair of
girl's boots, I always get a peculiar kind of thrill.
I feel I want to tap on the door and call out:
' Say, are you comfy? ' "

Decimus was also " crazy for a talk," but his
conscience smote him that he ought not to
encourage Tony to talk. The boy was played
out. He ought to be in bed. In any case he
would ask no questions. If he insisted on talk-
ing, then he must. It was a great temptation
to listen. Why was he so played out? What
experiences had he been through?

Tony ensconced himself comfortably in an up-
holstered cane chair, and puffed his cigarette.
Decimus watched him, and noted the twitching
of his sallow face, and the movement of his rest-
less eyes as he blinked at the candle. Suddenly
he said :

" I 'm scared about Peter. I saw him in
prison. Gosh ! he is sick. I could n't tell them.

AN ISLAND STORY 259

It's fair broke him up. He's been in the in-
firmary three weeks. There's a dog's chance
that if they can get him out quick his life may
be saved. Two years of it would have killed
him sure. He hardly knew me. He doesn't
realize that he may come out soon."

Tony buried his head in his hands. Decimus
was not sure that he was not sobbing. He was
silent for some moments. The steady beat of
the sea against the rocks below sounded like the
distant roar of ironic cheers at some cruel fate.
The voice of Tony changed. It was colored with
passion and anger.

" Oh, it 's cruel ! " he said. " This prison sys-
tem is barbaric! It's damned . . . cruel. It
leaves out everything we've fought for. If a
man has done wrong, you ought to help him, not
break him. Why this better distinction between
physical and spiritual things? If a man gets
appendicitis you remove his appendix and nurse
him up ; you don't kick him in the stomach."

He leaned back and surveyed his cigarette
which had gone out. He relighted it, and con-
tinued:

"But there's awful big things on the move,
Dess. ... If you want to get on in the world,
it 's a great scheme to adopt an attitude of utter
helplessness. Go about like an infant. Some

260 THE QUERRILS

one is dead sure to come along, and help you
through. These Querrils! How can you help
it? They tickle me to death! I love them.
They're hothouse products. They know there
will always be gardeners to keep the place at the
right temperature for them. They are like
Ptolemy the Second, who gambles on his beauty.
This young Capel ! He'sa proper man ! My !
I wish you'd seen the way he handled friend
Castro ! "

Decimus rolled on his bed, and reached for his
own cigarette case. He was elaborately non-
chalant.

"You saw Castro then? If you won't offer
me one of your cigarettes, I must smoke my
own ! "

" Sorry. Yep, I saw friend Castro. He
would have no truck with any one till the other
sailor-man came along. By God! I couldn't
help admiring the man. His back was broken,
but he spat in my face because I asked him to
betray a man he hated. And his reason was
sufficient. They were shipmates. What is this
bond of the sea? You never hear a man speak
of his landmate. The land seems to have no

AN ISLAND STORY 261

honor or esprit de corps. It staggers you when
you come up against it.

" And there was Castro lying there like a dead
man, spitting out his hate at the world. And
then the other man comes along and leans over
and talks to him. He does n't seem to hear him
for a long time. He just bogles at the ceiling.
And then he gradually seems to be conscious of
something, some tang of the great salt open
spaces. He blinks and turns his eyes to the other
fellow. And Capel never asks him to betray his
shipmate, but he talks about rivers in Borneo,
and about old fruit steamers plying the waters
of the Malay Archipelago, and serangs, and
quartermasters, and cargo-chains and winches.
And gradually the other joins in. He becomes
interested. He calls him ' tuan.' They seem to
get lost in the mists of the Southern Seas. You
can smell the damn place. At last they reach
the island of Pannantonga. . . ."

Tony pulled his dressing-gown round him more
tightly. In spite of the warmth of the night he
seemed chilly. Decimus offered his eiderdown,
which he wasn't using, but the boy shook his
head.

" What was I saying? Oh, yes, sure, Pannan-
tonga. It seemed that at that time Castro and
Jim Troon were shipmates on a freight-steamer

262 THE QUERRILS

plying between Monte Video and some of the
South Sea islands. Every spring they touched
Pannantonga. It sounded a fairy-like-enough
location, covered with flowers and cocoanuts,
with coral-reefs all around. There was a long
white bungalow on the south side of the island
— a dandy place, like a Long Island summer
resort — and here there lived an Italian woman
named Fiametta Castellani. She was the kept
woman of one of these Malay rajahs. He was a
very wealthy man, with big interests all over
the South Seas. He used to .spend about two
months a year with her. The rest of the time
he was away collecting the stuff and getting a
move on his different propositions. And then of
course the old Adam and Eve triple-bill was
staged. The lady got fed up with these long
intervals of nothing but reading novels and
thrashing the servants. And then there came
to the island a most unlikely source of trouble
in the person of a Scotch accountant, a raw-
boned, sandy galoot named Morson. He was
sent there by the Rajah for a month every year
to check his dealings. He sounded like a frozen
guinea, but he seemed to get right there in the
ladies' affections, without any i deeficulty.' He
was the only man Fiametta ever got crazy over.

AN ISLAND STORY 263

u It 's a very ordinary, sordid story, Decimus.
It will make yon blush. Not on account of the
immorality, but on account of the triteness of it.
Fiametta had a baby, a dusky-eyed little effort
for which the Rajah was right and properly
responsible. He was as pleased as a man who
has lost a ten-cent piece, and found a five-dollar
bill. He left a few days after the baby was
born, intending to return in a month or two.
But at Singapore he contracted fever and was
very ill for a long spell. When he recovered his
affairs had got tied up, and he had to go to
Europe on a big litigation case. He was away
altogether for fifteen months. Fourteen months
after he'd been away, Fiametta had another
baby. This would not have pleased papa so
much. In fact he would have been dashed
annoyed. And he had a certain peculiarly effi-
cient and Eastern way of dealing with trouble
of that sort. You see he was absolute lord of
the island. He carried revolvers around with
him, and all that sort of thing. Fiametta was
his bondwoman and — well, they don't ask lots
of questions down in those parts. Fiametta was
in a panic. She went up to a bungalow in the
hill, alone with an old Italian woman and a
native servant. And there she had the baby, so

264 THE QtJERRILS

that no one else on the island should hear about
it, and also because when it was born she meant
to dispose of it

" But when the time came she lost her nerve.
No woman can kill her own baby unless she is
actually € temporarily insane.' And Fiametta
was n't. When she saw it, she cried, and wanted
to keep it, along with the dusky. She was mad
on it. She must have had a pretty bad time of it
up there in that bungalow in the wood, with no
one to have a heart-to-heart with except the
Italian servant, Luisa. But one day, while the
matter was still in lege pendente — as the
lawyers say — Luisa spotted that the coasting
steamer Peter Gurney had come into the bay.

" Of course I ? m piecing this all together best
way I can from what Castro said, Dess. A lot
of it is very vague. The two women must have
figured it out together. Anyway Luisa went
down and loped around the jetty. The first per-
son she struck the trail of was Jim Troon.

" There 's a bit of a blank here. Whether she
put her proposition to Jim right there or whether
she induced him to come up to the Castellani
woman, I don't know. But the result was a
square deal. And Castro, who was at that time
second mate, had to be let into the secret. The
baby was smuggled out at night on to the steamer,

AN ISLAND STORY 265

and shoved into Castro's cabin. A big sum of
money was paid down, and the Castellani prom-
ised to pay a hundred pounds a year to Jim
Troon's wife to look after the baby until such
time as she should ask for it. Every year Jim
or his wife was to take the child and exhibit it
to an agent in the city of London, and uhey would
receive a draft which would enable them to draw
two pounds a week.

"It's a mystery to me how Jim and Castro
managed about the baby on the voyage.
Whether they pretended it was a stowaway and
offered to adopt it, or whether the skipper had a
wife aboard and they got round them both, Lord
only knows!

" It was nearly a year before they got back to
London, and they managed to get Clara Cas-
tellani there safe and well. Jim had been mar-
ried a few months before he sailed, but his wife
had so far not presented him with offspring.
But ten months after he returned she had a child
when they were living in Stockwell, which they
called Emma. Soon after they went to live at
Chatham, where Jim settled down and worked in
the docks, and drew his hundred pounds a year
for the Castellani child. I gather about that
time he was running pretty straight. He was
passionately fond of his wife, who was also half-

266 THE QUERRILS

Italian — her name was Maria Ferrati — and
they did the square thing by the other woman's
kid, as you might imagine they would. And then
six months later poor Jim fairly got it in the
neck. There was an epidemic of typhoid in the
quarter of Chatham where they lived. The
whole family got it. They were very sick. Jim
got over it, and the Castellani child got over it,
but his wife and Emma both died."

" Good God ! " interjected Decimus. " Then
this girl is not Emma Troon."

"This girl is Clara Castellani. I have seen
Emma Troon's grave in a pauper cemetery at
Chatham myself."

" But what on earth did Troon — "

"Troon nearly went dotty when he realized
the blow he had received. He went out after raw
spirit. He bludgeoned himself into insensibility
with the poison. But he was cute enough to
hang on to the Castellani child all through. He
took her to London, and engaged odds and ends
of women to look after her. He got sick of ex-
plaining to all these people who the child was,
so he eventually just called her Emma, after his
own child. But when he took her down town to
the attorney once a year she was then Clara
Castellani. And he got the stuff all right And
every year for eighteen years that woman 'way

AN ISLAND STORY 267

oyer in Pannantonga had salved her conscience
over the momentary lapse with a raw-boned
Scotsman to the tune of one hundred pounds.
Jim apparently soon tired of this wet-nurse
scheme, for four years later he married a woman
out of a dry-goods store, and that ? s the present
Mrs. Troon. I reckon he married her more as a
nurse to the child than as a companion to him-
self. She seemed to fill no kink in his heart He
never stopped drinking from the day of the first
Mrs. Troon's death. He never told his wife who
Clara Castellani is. She still thinks she 's the
child of his first wife.

" Now comes the crux of the situation. Last
year the money suddenly stopped. The attorney
said that the Castellani woman was dead, but
Jim did n't believe him. It synchronized with a
moment when Castro again turned up in London.
The men were both hard up, as usual. Troon
was furious with the Querrils over some
imaginary grievance. He and Castro got
together. And then — I gather this scheme —
this blackmailing, dirty plot was evolved by the
two of them."

" It 's what you call ' the honor of the sea,' "
remarked Decimus.

" That 's one of the side miracles — that men,
who could be loyal to each other, could put across

268 THE QUERRILS

anything a» diabolically vile. For the whole
thing was done in a cold-blooded, commercial
way. They spotted that these Querrils were —
amateurs. They put Emma — I mean Clara —
on to it. She was partly innocent and partly
guilty. Anyway she was young, but not so
young as they represented. They drove her
into it very neatly. In the end she scored off
them by disappearing."

Tony stopped and his head drooped on to his
chest. Decimus was not watching him. He was
turning it all over in his mind.

" There are lots of points I 'd like to ask you
about," he said at length.

"Yes, I know, but not to-night. I'm
through.' ' Tony stood up and staggered towards
the window. He hovered there for a moment like
a great ghost, then he added :

" Besides it 's all going to seem trivial now."

Decimus waited for further enlightenment,
and none being forthcoming, he remarked :

"What do you mean by 'it's all going to
seem trivial now ' ? "

Tony turned to him as though somewhat sur-
prised.

" Have n't you been reading the news-sheets? "

" Curiously enough Querril forgot to order the
papers, and we can never get them over at

AN ISLAND STORY 269

Angterroc. In fact it 's rather nice to get away
from all the hot air of Fleet Street for a bit.
We We enjoyed it. We have n't seen a paper for
five days. Has anything been happening? "

Tony hesitated by the door. He seemed
anxious to frame his parting news in an effective
manner. He walked across the room again and
blew out the candle.

" I 'm sorry I 'm disturbing like this," he said.
" Little boys ought to have gone by-by long since.
I tell you they're wonderful — these Querrils.
Folks are bound to be always looking after them.
And it 's quite right they should. They 're the
darlings of the gods. I just love them, the whole
atmosphere of them. We've got to preserve
them somehow. John has done his service.
You can always depend on some one like John
turning up to defend them, although they would
never quite understand him, never quite appreci-
ate him. And now John has gone off to help see
them through again."

" Where 's he gone? "

" This island fleet has been mobilized. John 's
away seeking his lawful occasions. In a few
days' time the whole of Europe will be at war."

It was Tony's ultima thule. He whispered,
"Good night, Dess," and disappeared silently
through the door.

270 THE QUERRILS

Decimus lay there some time, watching the
dark corner of the room where Tony had vanished.
He seemed to be doubting whether the door had
ever opened and shut, whether indeed the visit of
his friend had not been a chimera, an island
night's dream. Then he rose heavily and puffed
his way to the window.

The night was calm and extraordinarily
placid. There was no moon, but the profundity
of the heavens was disclosed by the stars in an
almost incredible scheme of gradations — Some
bold and interrogative, others idle and detached ;
while here and there a pale swarm would melt
into nothingness, as though they were leaving it
all; floating away like the hejira of a flock of
acolytes dismissed from their job by the high
priest for some lack of punctilio in the impressive
ceremonial.

"It's wonderfully balanced," thought Deci-
mus suddenly.

All around was the mysterious movement of
water. Beneath him a dart: rock stood out like
some cowled JEsculapius listening to the pulse of
the sea.

Away in the distance lights flickered hither and
thither, like furtive eyes suspicious of this im-
mensity of repose.

CHAPTER XVI

THE IDEALIST VERSUS THE PHILOSOPHER

PETER spent five months in a nursing home
in London. For part of that time he hov-
ered between life and death. At one time it
was doubtful whether he would in any case retain
his reason. That he would be an invalid for
several years was a foregone conclusion. The
prison experience had shattered his nerves,
affected his heart, and seriously disorganized his
digestive apparatus. He was to all intents and
purposes a physical wreck.

It was not till the following February that he
was well enough to be removed in a motor am-
bulance to Chessilton Heath — " the chunk of a
growing boy," who had raced off one morning to
catch his train to London, returned, looking like
a wizened old gentleman. He had suffered from
jaundice, and his skin was wrinkled and yellow.
He started at the slightest noise. He hardly
ever spoke or smiled. He lay all day staring at

271

272 THE QUEEEILS

the ceiling, as though he did n't recognize where
he was, or thaCt it didn't interest him. The
family in turns came and sat by his bed, and
tried to amuse him. He seemed to take an inor-
dinately long time to take anything in, and when
he did he merely nodded or frowned. It did n't
seem to matter. Some of them read to him, and
he would listen abstractedly for a few minutes,
and then fall asleep, or be obviously distressed.

He developed unaccountable likes and dislikes
to people, and an almost savage fastidiousness
concerning food. If it wasn't exactly as he
fancied it, he would thrust it from him like a
spoiled child. His mother worried him, and the
boys left him quite apathetic. He would some-
times like to have Magda, and he would clutch
her hand and fumble with it like a drowning
man. Once they brought the baby, and held it
up to him. He looked at it solemnly for half a
minute, and then suddenly burst into tears and
turned on his side. He did not appear to recog-
nize either Tony or Decimus. The only person
with whom he seemed entirely comfortable was
his nurse, a middle-aged, competent person from
Lancashire named Morson. She treated him
kindly, but with unrelenting firmness. She
would say :

" Oh, no, Master Peter; we won't have any of

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHER 273

that. Fish ! Very nice fish, very good for little
boy. Fish very good for the brain — make
master a very clever big man. Now coom on,
laddy ! "

And Peter seemed to recognize in her the ar-
bitrary embodiment of some autocratic power
that might possibly get him out of all this mess.
He grumbled and protested, but he always did
as she told him in the long run.

When Annette came to see him, he appeared
startled, as though she had suddenly touched
some chord of revelation within himself. He
looked at her very hard. She leaned over him
and said :

"Peter, you know me. You know me, don't
you, Peter? . . . Annette !"

He looked from her face to the window, as
though he were trying to recall some pleasant
experience, which for the moment eluded him.
She kissed him on the brow, and he put up his
hands, and fondled her hair.

Annette smiled, and chatted on in her musical
voice :

" Peter, do you remember when you lost your
cap in the rabbit holes upon Folly's Head? And
when we picnicked over in the woods at Moble-
hurst and you made up the story about Gobbo
the white rhinoceros and Ug the giraffe. And

274 THE QUERRILS

it came on to rain, Peter, and we took cover in a
sand-pit, and there we met the funny old man
who showed us tricks with string, and said he
had been a quartermaster on a sloop which had
sunk pirate Chinese dhows. And how excited
you were ! and you wanted to go to sea ; and you
practised harpooning on the lawn, and smashed
a tomato frame. Peter, Peter dear, do you re-
member the old lady in the cottage at Tidehurst,
who told us how 'profligate' her potatoes had
been? . . ."

Peter looked at her, vaguely entertained. He
still played with her hair. And then suddenly
he said in a faint voice :

" There was a zigzag path down to the shore.
You . . .»

" Yes? Yes, Peter, yes? "

Annette painly strived to think of the par-
ticular experience he was trying to recall, but
she could not. After a moment or two, he sighed
and turned away.

It would be unfair to the Querril family to
imagine that the serious condition of Peter
absorbed the whole family attention during that
trying period, or that they were in any way

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHER 275

indifferenkto " the bigger issue " which was then
engulfing the world. The war, in fact, led to
most unusual Querrilian celebrations. At times
in discussing it, the family were as near to quar-
reling as they had ever been in their lives. It
was a matter that if thought about at all had to
be thought about intensely.

Decimus always retained one very definite
little vision of an island episode.

It was the night the news came. They were
all on the terrace. Rodney and Magda had just
landed from the boat. They were armed with
newspapers, and were looking very white and
solemn. Martin had called out :

" Is it true? "

And Magcfea had nodded her head, and replied :

" Yes, Sir Edward Grey has made a disgust-
ing, patriotic speech. They 're at war. . . ."

And Decimus became extremely occupied with
this new aspect of Querrilism, which adjudged
patriotism " disgusting." It was not an opinion
in any way influenced by the obvious danger in
which John was immediately plunged. It was
something much deeper and more final than that.
It was an expression of revolt of the finer sensi-
bilities against the course fiber of the body
politic. During the whole of their lives they had
never given the question of war ten minutes'

276 THE QUERBILS

consideration. War was not merely a crime, it
was an unspeakable, unthinkable crime. And
patriotism, with its narrow partizanship, and
un altruistic outlook, was — disgusting ! Every-
thing that had been striven for and established
was thrown into a melting pot. Conscience was
outraged. These old gentlemen, who held the
lives of every one in their hands, ought to have
avoided it. The matter was not agreeable.

It may be said that that was the first conclu-
sion arrived at by the whole of the Querril family.
And it was a conclusion fanned to a white heat
by the hygienist, Ebba Janssen.

Ebba Janssen for the first time showed real
animation and enthusiasm. She talked till late
that night about " the capitalist war."

Ill

This universal, outraged sense lasted many
months. Mr. Querril would sometimes say :

" Dear me, they ought not to have invaded Bel-
gium ! " or, " This seems very shocking, a pas-
senger ship torpedoed ! "

But the protest was said rather in sorrow than
in anger. It was an impeachment of times
rather than of individuals. It could never have
happened if Mr. Gladstone had been alive, or even

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHER 277

King Edward. It was a very long time before
the Querril family would begin to realize that
the war was in any way an affair which con-
cerned themselves directly. It certainly con-
cerned John, but John was an exceptional person,
a professional naval man. If John thought it
was all right to go about killing people for some
vague principle, then, as far as he was concerned,
it was all right. And the point must be loyally
conceded for the sake of Magda.

Curiously enough the most doubtful member
was Rodney. He adherred to the Querril point
of view, generally speaking, but he appeared to
be weighing the whole thing in his mind, and he
would sometimes advance theories that sounded
almost imperialist.

Mr. Lemaire was also hot on the popular side,
and Annette frequently argued that " as things
were, we were bound to come in." There were
so many other of their friends who held this view
that gradually it became understood that discus-
sion of the war was taboo.

To Decimus the question was fraught with such
amazingly discursive possibilities that no one
could determine what he thought. With a
pacifist he would take up the attitude of a rabid
imperialist; with a red-hot patriot he would
argue by the hour as a pacifist.

278 THE QUERRILS

Peter had never heard of the war. It began
when he was practically out of his mind in the
prison infirmary, and he was still too unwell to
read the newspapers. And of course it was
agreed that nothing should be said to him about
it.

In the spring he was brought downstairs, and
the library was converted into his bedroom. On
fine days Nurse Morson would wheel him out
onto the brick path of the pergola and leave him
there in the sun.

And there he was on a certain day in May
when Rodney was married to Ebba.

There were certain disappointments about this
wedding. In the first place Ebba refused to be
married in a church. She said that as neither
of them believed in the church service it would
be a profanity to go through it. She also said
that she did not consider that the feelings of
one's relatives ought to influence one's sense of
duty. Conscience was above everything, so they
went to the registrar's office. In the second place
she refused to cry.

But the third and greatest disappointment —
certainly to Mrs. Querril — was that the young
couple were not to live at Chessilton Heath. It
appeared that Ebba required a quicker train
service, in order to be in closer touch with her

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSFHER 279

multifarious activities, so they went to live at
Clotton-Diddlesbury, about half way up the line,
where there were good trains that got to London
in half an hour. After the wedding, and when
the few guests had departed, Peter, who was just
going to be wheeled in, suddenly said to Evelyn :

"Where was John?"

" John ! Oh, he could n't get leave, darling."

Peter said nothing more, but he seemed to be
considering the matter profoundly.

The next morning he asked for John again.
Evelyn again reminded him of what she had said.
In the afternoon he said to Magda :

"It's a long time since John had leave,
Magda."

Magda concealed her surprise at the remark.

"No, darling, only a month or two ago. I
think he 's on manceuvers or something."

Poor Magda ! How she wished she were speak-
ing the truth !

A few days later he said to Nurse Morson :

"Nurse, find out for me where John Capel is."

"Aye now, laddy, don't you worry yourself.
Mr. Capel 's all right."

He looked at her suspiciously. John was be-
coming an obsession. With the cunning of an
invalid he began to try and trip people up over
the question of John. He suspected that some-

280 THE QUERRILS

thing was being kept from him. In a most un-
accountable fashion the quest of John seemed to
vitalize him. It was the first matter he had de^
veloped an interest in since he was a free man.
He seemed to think it was in some way tremen-
dously important. A slight tinge of color came
to his cheeks, his eyes became brighter. Nearly
every day he said :
" Has nothing been heard of John to-day? "
" This John is doing the boy a power of good,"
said the nurse one day to Mrs. Querril.

Several specialists and pathologists had visited
Peter and recommended various forms of treat-
ment, but no one seemed to do him so much good
as this elusive lieutenant whose address even to
his own wife was never more informing than
" Somewhere at sea."

With increasing vitality the truth could not
be kept from him for long. One day he asked
for a newspaper. The request was received with
mingled delight and regret. Peter was begin-
ning to take an interest in his fellow men. Alas !
for his first glimpse at his fellow man's recent
activities! Nurse Morson equivocated. She
would get the newspaper later on. She con-

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHER 281

suited the family. It was eventually decided
that it would be better for some one to tell him
about the war, before he was brought face to face
with all its complicated and distressing details in
the daily press. It was a Friday, and Magda
remembered that Tony was coming down the next
day for the week-end. Who could be better at
breaking the news cunningly and felicitously
than he? And this was Tony's felicitous method
as he imparted the information to Peter in a
sunny corner of the lawn :

" Say, sonny, while you 've been playing the
sick man, there's been a real good rumpus all
over this gay little earth. The big powers have
picked up sides, and they 're not all in the game
yet. They 're having a real good time. This
little old island, France, and Russia top the bill
this side, and Germany and Austria are star
performers over yonder. And they've all got
their fans out in the Balkans, trying to beat up
some fresh keen ball-players. The United States
has not yet taken a hand in it, but Tony MacD.
is trying for all he 's worth to wangle a passport
to New York, and if ever he gets to Washington
the President and all that push will have to show
him a pretty cute reason why God's country is
not living up to its story. We all have a story.
It's what we've come through, what we are,

282 THE QUERRILS

what we represent. And we have to go on with
it, or close the book forever." -

Peter never took his eyes from the cherry
blossom in full flower against the house. At this
point he said :

" Why are they at war? "

Tony did not hesitate with his answer.

"Because the story has reached that point
where the war comes in. In a hundred years'
time some genius will sift the causes which
brought it about ; and no one will bother to read
him, because they will have their own troubles
then. But I could put him wise now. It 's come
through greed, vanity, selfishness, ignorance, in-
tolerance, love, honor, and fear. In fact all the
ingredients of a real good story. But mostly
love and fear. We all want things for those we
love, and we 're fearful for those we love. A nest
like this ... if you thought there was a gang of
thieves and galoots up on Folly's Head whose
big idea was to raid this place and carry off your
women-folk — what would you do? You'd em-
ploy the instruments of fear. If you were going
bankrupt, and the place was to be sold off, and
you saw a chance to do a big deal, and make it
safe again, so as your women-folk should go
softly and wear their glad-rags again — would n't
you do it? And if you make money some one

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHER 283

gets pushed back a bit. It's all in the story.
And the motif of the story — the only motif of
any story. — is love.

"Fear is only an accessory after the fact.
And, sir, it 's not this gauzy, universal brother-
iiood-of-man, grape-juice and potash brand of
love that counts. It's the intense, individual
love. The eyes of some woman, the touch of her
hand, the lingering, compelling essence of her,
that hallows her children and yours. It 's that
that links you to life. It 's that that makes you
do things, fool around, and go to war because
you're frightened. It's your story, and the
story of the gay little earth."

Tony wangled his passport. He told Mrs.
Querril he was going to see his old mother in
Michigan. But to Magda he had quite a differ-
ent reason for going. He said :

" The fact is, I want a good eat. An Amer-
ican who has been abroad some time gets a sort
of nostalgia for green corn on the cob."

"You sensualist! You could get some sent

over."

" It 's not the same. Besides, there 's all sorts
of other good things, and the cooking ! "

" I 'm sure Mrs. Yardley is a very good cook,"

284 THE QUEREILS

" She 's not bad for an English cook, but my !
I crave for a chicken k la Maryland in the way
our old colored woman used to fry it And oys-
ters! I wake up in the night and think of the
fried oysters she used to give us, Blue-points as
big as a plate ! "

" Oh, Tony MacD. I 'd no idea you were like
this. We would never have asked you down."

"And the breakfast! Breakfast is a dead
meal this side. You don't begin to understand
cereals. And these boiled eggs in a little hour-
glass, gosh ! The cooking of hen-fruit is an art
in itself. And where is the grape-fruit of my
youth? and the steaming plates of buckwheat
cake, and dear, gold maple syrup? "

" Do you have all this for breakfast? "

"We diaper it all round our central edifice,
which is usually a grilled chop, and a dish of
fried potatoes."

" You horror ! No wonder you are miserable
here. We must have simply starved you."

"Yes, I'm just starved," sighed Tony, not
taking his eyes from the fine curves of Magda's
cheek and neck, as she bent over the baby.

And so he went back to America, and ate green
corn on the cob, and saw his old mother in Mich-
igan, and ultimately persuaded the United States
to come into the war.

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHER 285

When Tony had gone, Peter was allowed to
have the newspapers. At first they simply be-
wildered him. He read a little, and then
frowned and pushed the paper away.

He said nothing, but for days he was so obvi-
ously troubled that the nurse persuaded him to
forego reading. She read little bits out to him
instead.

At the end of tihe next week he asked for the
paper again. He became so insistent that they
thought he would be probably unhappier still
without it. This time he sighed and seemed de-
termined to go into the matter more exhaustively.
He read for a long time and afterwards was more
tranquil.

As the weeks went by he became more avid for
news. He not only read the daily papers, but de-
manded the weeklies and the quarterlies. As his
interest increased, his vitality renewed itself in
like ratio. Before the end of the month he was
walking by easy stages about the garden and a
little way down the road. He became a vora-
cious reader. He read everything he could get
hold of, including novels and books on various
aspect of the war. They brought him his sketch
book and pencil, but the passion for drawing

286 THE QUERRILS

seemed dormant. He Wanted to read and he
could n't read enough.

And then one day there was a great excite-
ment. John turned up. He had three days'
leave, the first since that fateful August. He
looked remarkably well, keener and more alert
than ever, in spite of the fact that the hair on
his temples was beginning to turn gray, and the
crow's feet around his eyes were more pro-
nounced. He was in tremendously high spirits,
but not a word could be got out of him about the
war or about his own activities. He wanted to
laugh and sing and rag, and throw the baby up
in the air, and brazenly hug his wife before every
one, and jump the tennis net — the others still
occasionally played — and run Peter down to the
heath and back in his wheeled chair. His visit
came and went in a flash. It was like a tonic to
a jaded body. It left behind it the aftermath of
cheerfulness and hope, only marred by that
haunting but bravely controlled look at the back
of Magda's eyes.

It contrasted strangely with the visit of Rod-
ney and Ebba, the following week-end. They
had now been married nearly three months, and
there was that curious telepathic conviction
throughout the family — mutually recognized
but not expressed — that Rodney was already

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHEB 287

not happy. Rodney, the idealist, the Querril of
Querrils, had made a mistake. And if he had
made a mistake, if he had married the wrong
woman, everything that constituted a Querril
ideal was scattered to the winds. He was in far
worse case than Peter. Peter would in time re-
cover. He would be just himself again. But to
be harnessed for life to a shattered ideal! To
perhaps become cynical. Never to have all those
little niches and shrines tucked away in one's life
that meant so much.

And there happened on the Sunday evening a
strange event in the story of the family. Not a
quarrel, but a sudden definite disagreement be-
tween two members of it. And the two most
unlikely members: Rodney, the idealist, and
Peter, the philosopher, suddenly come to life.

VII

It happened in the garden. Rodney and Ebba
were talking about their work. They both be-
longed to a pacifist organization. Ebba was red
hot, and Rodney came along in a slower but more
considered partizanship. They talked at great
length, and Martin, Magda, and Evelyn chipped
in sympathetically. Mr. Querril occasionally in-
tercepted mildly with the " but-we-must-be-prac-

288 THE^QUERRILS

tical" standpoint. Suddenly the invalid from
the chair said :
" I think what you 're doing is all rot ! "
The bombshell was received with an explosion
of laughter. Peter was well! Peter was him-
self again ! That was the dominant feeling, but
Rodney smiled indulgently, and Ebba supercili-
ously.

" Perhaps it is," said Rodney. " But still we
think it 's right."

" Peter has returned to find himself a patriot,"
laughed Martin.
Ebba spoke up in her precise tones :
" No doubt he will be joining up, and going out
to fight for the rich Jews of Throgmorton
Street."

And then Peter made a most surprising state-
ment. He said:
" If I were well enough I 'd join to-morrow ! "
This statement was received with far more
amazement than his first. It was said sincerely,
indeed almost tearfully. It was like a sudden
uncomfortable realization that there were two
Querril points of view, and they were hopelessly
at variance. It had about it, too, the sinister
hint of some overpowering actuality. It brought
the horror of the day right into that nest on
the Surrey heath. It was the first intimation

IDEALIST VERSUS f>HILOSPHER 289

that the war was a thing which actually con-
cerned the Querril inner life. If Peter was so
obviously sincere about himself, it implied that
he certainly thought that Martin and Rodney
were wrong.

Mrs. Querril looked at her youngest son, and
for the first time drew comfort from his sallow
face and hollow cheeks. Peter would never be
well enough to go to any war.

" Dear me, he 's very easily excited since his
fever," thought Mrs. Querril.

Rodney soon had himself in hand.

" Well, let us hear what Pedro has got to say,"
he remarked.

The tears were almost starting from Peter's
eyes. He spluttered:

" I can't talk about it. It 's too tremendous.
It 's all part of . . . what I learned in prison. I
see things differently. Life is such a big thing.
It is n't all as simple as you make out. Every-
body is n't just — like us."

" What is he talking about? " asked Ebba.

"Let Peter say what he wants to," snapped
Evelyn.

" You 've been an interferer, Rodney, all your
time. You believed in interference in matters
of social reform. You still believe in it. Where
are you going to draw the line? AH nations are

290 THE QUEREILS

now interdependent. Nobody's going to shut
themselves off and say 'This is our country.
We 're going to make human sacrifices, indulge
in unnatural vices, borrow and not pay back, do
just what we like and it's nothing to do with
you.' If they do that, they 've got to be inter-
fered with. There's growing up not merely a
herd instinct, but a world instinct. An uncon-
trollable desire to have things decently and uni-
versally ordered. People are wretched — "

" But, my dear chap, how on earth does a war
help matters? It makes it worse. It puts
everything back hundreds of years."

"Germany's triumph for world dominion
would put everything back a hundred years. If
they are broken, social reform — socialism, if
you like — wih leap into its own at a bound.
The world will get together. This stupid move-
ment of yours is helping no one. It can't possi-
bly stop the war. It's-' simply helping the
enemy. It's just as though you came across
your dearest friend in a death grip with an enemy
and you tried to put his collar straight. . . ."

Peter was very flushed, and Nurse Morson had
something to say, but it didn't concern world-
politics. Peter was led into the house.

"He doesn't begin to understand our point
of view," remarked Ebba when he 'd gone.

IDEALIST VERSUS PHILOSPHER 291

"Well, don't let's talk any more about it,"
said Magda.

And there the matter, as far as words were con-
cerned, dropped. But the mental impression re-
mained indelible. It produced an indefinable,
nervy tension. Every one had to be careful what
they said, and think well beforehand. There
were raw edges easily irritated. Rodney per-
haps was the most disturbed. He hated the idea
of disagreeing with Peter, and he was equally as
anxious to get to the root of the matter. It was
further complicated by their many friends, most
of whom were doing war work, and a number of
boys who only last summer were playing tennis
on their court were now in the trenches, and
many would never play again.

The Lemaires also took the popular side.
Madame Lemaire was a Frenchwoman, and her
attitude was as uncompromisingly French as it
could be. Annette and Joan wavered for a time,
and then Joan went off and did canteen work,
and Annette, who had learned to drive her fath-
er's car, volunteered for the army transport serv-
ice. She was passed and sent to France, where
she remained till the end of the war.

And one day at breakfast Mr. Querril splut-
tered with a great excitement when he opened his
newspaper. Young Stallard, the boy who stole,

292 THE QUERRILS

who could do nothing right, and of whom they
had lost trace — had won a Victoria Cross at
Gallipoli!

One could argue about politics, but the Ho-
meric note was disturbing. In a world of sacri-
fice and suffering was the altruist to contribute
nothing? And the note was insistent among the
most unlikely people.

When the warrant was issued for the arrest
of Jim Troon on a charge of perjury, he was no-
where to be found. Later it was learned that
he was serving on a patrol boat. He had volun-
teered the day after war was declared. It was
Decimus who heard the story of his death from
the wife of a naval officer, who had survived a
breezy and unreported little incident somewhere
off the coast of Ireland. The patrol boat and
the submarine had both been sunk. Jim Troon
had last been seen in a death-grip with a Ger-
man officer on the bow of the sinking boat. And
so he died for the honor of the only mistress who
had held his respect throughout life.

It was all very disturbing !

CHAPTER XVII

"there is no answer"

WHEN, in the winter of 1917, Rodney
went out to the Great War, his depart-
ure revealed the Querril family at their best.
The reasons which ultimately prompted him to
forego the nimbus of a conscientious objector in
favor of the uniform of a lieutenant in the Royal
Field Artillery were so involved as to baffle dis-
section. He quarreled with his wife over the
matter. At least if he did not quarrel, their ar-
guments, drawn out over a period of twelve
months, reached an impasse. Rodney would al-
ways ultimately arrive at the same conclusion :
" This is all very well, my dear, but what is
going to happen? It is certainly established
that it was they who started it. It was they
who would not listen. It was they who were
prepared. Their very success proves their
bloodguiltiness. And it is also perfectly certain
that if they win they will hold Europe in thrall.
Do you think our people will sit down under

203

294 THE QUERRILS

that? Do you think the French will? Do you
think the Americans will keep outside the ring
and see it happen? It means more. wars in years
to come. If we win, there is a chance — not a
certainty, but a good chance — that we may get
a world understanding."

" It is simply the struggle for the superimpo-
sition of one set of imperial ideas upon another."

" Possibly so. But the imperial ideas of Brit-
ain, France, and America might lead to a human
commonwealth. The imperial ideas of Germany
never could by any stretch of the imagination.
Their ideas are about as idealistic as the ideas
of Ptolemy the Second. Wilson is a different
story. If he could have his way . . ."

It must be said for Ebba that when she found
that Rodney had made up his mind, she took it
very well. She still argued, but without bitter-
ness. She even entered into all his arrange-
ments when he joined up. She showed her prac-
tical sense on more than one occasion when he
was on his training. She selected his under-
clothes, and sent him parcels regularly.

While he was still at the Cadet School at Cam-
bridge, their child was born. She had not fore-
warned him that it might come so soon, as she
did not want him to be worried. It came, a
fragile mite, blinking at the brightness of this

" THEBE IS NO ANSWER " 295

surprising world ; it gurgled a little, cried a lit-
tle, flickered for ten long days, and then went out.

Rodney came posthaste. He was terribly up-
set. He looked at the little pale bud, which had
opened a petal and peeped at the portals of life,
and had then declined the journey through their
entrance. He kissed the smooth crown, and felt
somehow responsible. So meaningless! So ut-
terly futile and inexplicable!

He knelt down and kissed his wife, and all he
could think to say was :

"Ebba . . . Ebba . . . I'm so sorry. God
help you to bear it."

He felt her thrill against him for a moment.
Her face was pale but she did not cry.

He wanted to telegraph for his mother, but
Ebba said :

" If you please, I think it better not."

He had to return that night, and Ebba made
all the arrangements for the notification and for
the funeral. She bore it all alone.

Peter went before three medical boards and
they all rejected him. He was not even passed
for clerical work. On the evening when he re-
turned, disconsolate from his third rejection, the

296 THE QUERRILS

mind of Mr. Querril was exercised in the follow-
ing manner :

" Now this is a curious fact. If it had n't been
for this . . . deplorable episode, Peter would
now be quite fit. He might already be in the
trenches. He might by now have been . . . But
the doctors agree that he will eventually get all
right. Delicate perhaps, but quite reasonably
well. It may almost be said that Emma Troon
may have saved his life. How delicately inter-
woven are these little skeins of fate! Just the
idle balance of some caprice, and not only a life
but the lives of unborn generations are affected."

Peter then took the matter into his own hands.
He went up to town and offered his services to
the Prisoners of War Relief Committee, and was
absorbed into the activities of that society.

Martin also compromised with his conscience.
He did nothing till the day of conscription had
dawned. Then he equivocated, left it too late
to get a commission, volunteered as a private a
week before he would have been called, got
passed in Medical Category C II, and, being a
clever architect and mathematician, was sent to
an obscure spot in Yorkshire and made to load
clinkers on to a motor lorry, convey them to a
military base, and unload them. He did this
without variation for two years.

" THERE IS NO ANSWER " 297

The Querril household gradually went to
pieces. Magda moved up to her flat in Chelsea,
and the happy arrangement was made that Peter
stayed with her, as he was now always in town.
(The fatal Pig-sty of course had been given up
years ago. )

Evelyn also became restless. She wanted to
follow her friends into their war-tainted opera-
tions, but she was persuaded by Magda that
" somebody really must stop with the darlings."

Annette was in France, Joan was away doing
canteen work, whilst Cecil, who was just an awk-
ward, leggy schoolboy on the island, was now an
officer in Mesopotamia in charge of a company
of solemn-looking Sikhs, each one of whom might
have been a headmaster, and Cecil prefect on a
week's probation.

Ill

On the day before Rodney went to France he
went to Chessilton Heath with his wife to say
good-by. It was a Sunday, and Magda and Peter
were down for the week-end. Martin was the
only member of the family who could not be
there, but Decimus came in in the afternoon, and
also Mr. and Mrs. Lemaire.

It was a day conducted on even more usual

298 THE QUEBBILS

lines than the day of Magda's wedding. A fine
December rain was falling, and they sat round
the fire in Peter's studio, and played with Jenny
and the dogs. Mrs. Querril talked about the ex-
traordinary difficulties of getting marmalade,
and the outrageous prices that laundries were
charging for their work. Mr. Querril became
eloquent about an illustrated book on " the Qua-
trocento," recently published in Edinburgh.
Decimus read out some typewritten sonnets he
had got hold of. They were for private circula-
tion only. They were extremely witty and were
ascribed to Max Beerbohm, although Decimus
was not entirely convinced about the authorship.
One which concerned certain august personages
elicited roars of laughter. Peter read out a let-
ter from Tony MacDowell, which also added to
the merriment. Poor Tony had also been turned
down as a soldier by the United States military
authorities, and instead had been put into an
army clothing department as a clerk ! and he was
furious about it! It wasn't at all what he
meant. He had meant to go over, see his old
mother in Michigan, eat green corn on the cob,
and just boost the United States into the war,
and then perhaps take charge of an army corps,
or become Director of Naval Construction. In-
stead of that he was checking packets of trouser

" THERE IS NO ANSWER" 299

buttons. The war produced many of these anom-
alies.

When it became time for Rodney to go, the pos-
ture of nonchalance was carried off magnifi-
cently. Mr. Querril made a great to-do about
comparing the watches and clocks. He said :

" You 've got plenty of time for your train.
Don't hurry. Don't forget that they always
leave the signals down on Sundays on this line,
so if you see them down you don't have to rush.
Eh ? yes, that clock 's seven minutes fast by the
station time. I put my watch right by it yester-
day. I don't think Mother and I will walk over
to-night — bit wet under foot — can't •see where
you 're stepping in the dark. Lie down i Potash !
You won't forget to call at Cox's in the morning
about that draft? You '11 have plenty of time.
Hope you'll have better weather when you —
on your next leave. Er — good-by, my boy ! "

There was something fine about the way Rod-
ney took his father's hand, the old twinkle com-
ing into his eye as he said :

a Well, good-by, George ! I 'd like to see any
press-cuttings about that Quatrocento book."

Mrs. Querril kissed him and said bravely :

" Good-by, my darling*, ^fcrite when you can."

Magda smiled and held him in a long hug.

" Good-by, old Roddies; come back quite soon."

300 THE QUERRILS

Ebba, Peter, and Evelyn walked to the station
with him, and the only apparently down-cast
member of the party was Ebba, silent anjl white
to the lips.

From that Sunday when Rodney came to say
good-by to that fatal day when a telegram came
to Ebba to express His Majesty's regret that he
had been killed in action seemed a very brief
flash of time. It was in fact the following
March, at the beginning of the last great German
offensive. Ebba's telegram simply said :

"Rodney killed coming to-night, Ebba."

It was Evelyn who opened the telegram. She
was alone in the house with her father and
mother. She said to the telegraph girl :

" There is no answer."

There certainly was not. There was nothing
to be said at all. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Only to race to her bedroom and throw herself
on the bed. Oh! why wasn't Magda here!
That was her first wild instinct. She dared not
face this new and awful calamity alone. She
dared not think of it, only how to cope with the
dire problem of breaking it to the others! . . .
That was the point to concentrate on. She must
think and think only of " the darlings." They

" THERE IS NO ANSWER " 301

were sitting there now in the room beneath her,
her father reading " The Nation," and her mother
knitting woolen socks for Rodney ! And Rodney-
was dead . . . dead . . . dead. Rodney would
never come back again. They would never see
him smile again, never hear that calm, smooth
voice. They would probably never know just
how he died. Somewhere alone, out in the dark-
ness . . .

It wouldn't do. Evelyn mustn't think like
that. She must pull herself together. She had
got to tell them. She did n't know it, but the
tears were streaming down her cheeks. She
groped her way down the well-lighted staircase,
and entered the drawing-room. Her father
looked up and blinked above the shaded reading
lamp.

"Was that the post, dear?" he asked.

Evelyn held the telegram in her hand. She
was utterly unnerved, unprepared. She sud-
denly threw herself forward and buried her face
in her mother's lap.

"Ebba is coming . . ." She sobbed and
thrust the telegram towards her father,

Mr. Querril coughed, and sluttered, and re-
adjusted his glasses.

" Er — what is — er — let me see — "

He read the telegram. He read it through

302 THE QUERRILS

twice, his lips twitching in a silent articulation
of the words. Then he put it down, and said
very quietly :

"Rodney is killed, dear."

Mrs. Querril had undoubtedly divined the
tragic import. She sunk back in her chair, and
the tears started to her eyes, but she said noth-
ing. Evelyn hugged her for a long time and she
felt her mother's heart beating very rapidly.
After a silence which nothing could fill, Mrs.
Querril said:

" Does Ebba say what time she 's coming, darl-
ing?"

Immediate distraction for Mr. Querril. Time-
tables to be consulted, and all the watches and
clocks compared. Yes, Ebba would probably ar-
rive about 8.45. They would telephone to Jebley
to meet her with his Victoria. Should they tel-
ephone to Magda and Peter? No, no, writing
was better in such a case. Write to them Mid
write to Martin. Or wire to Magda to come
down first thing in the morning. Magda was
splendid in times of trouble.

Mrs. Querril was put to bed before Ebba ar-
rived. Her heart was not quite what it was.

"THERE IS NO ANSWER" 303

Palpitations and faintness. Ring up Dr. Fox,
also old Decimus. Nice to have old friends
around one. . . .

Decimus came first, hurried and solemn. He
shook Mr. Querril's hand, and kissed Evelyn.
Then he sat ponderously down by the fire, and
read the telegram through twenty or thirty
times, as though hoping to discover by the lan-
tern of Diogenes the solution of this cruel attack
upon the happiness of those he loved.

And then came Ebba, no longer the reformer, I
the hygienist, the arbiter of the moral conscience
of mankind, but just a woman who has lost every-
thing. Her cheeks were colorless, the pupils of
her eyes distended, her clothes thrown on any-
how. She looked like a woman who has just .
escaped from prison, or like one who is trying to ;
escape from some unbearable conditions.

She sank into a chair and groaned. Evelyn
kissed her, and cried, and tried her best to make
comforting remarks, but she sat there quite unre-
sponsive and stared at the fire.

The essayist in the corner found himself think-
ing:

" Now this is quite surprising. I '& no idea it
was like this. It was evidently only Rodney
who made the mistake. And she never sus-
pected. Rodney must have been a fine chap.

304 THE QUERRILS

He would have seen it through to the end. I
suppose people must sometimes live their whole
lives like that, live a white lie to the bitter end."

It was nearly half an hour later that the mood
of Ebba changed. She cried and then suddenly
began to talk, bitterly, passionately, almost in-
coherently :

" It would not have been so bad if he had really
believed in it all — but he never did — He was
half-hearted. He hated all these politics like I
do. Oh! but it is cruel! . . . cruel, cruel.
Why is it all? What are all these vague ideas
compared to the lives of those we love?

" He was my man. I would have followed him
anywhere. I loved him. Even at the end I lied
to him to make him happy. I tried to comfort
him that what he did was right. I spoke against
my convictions. I would have thrown all my
convictions away to give him one hour's happi-
ness. I would have lied myself to hell. Oh ! it
is cruel, cruel — unspeakable. Millions of these
boys — all the very best — just to serve the pur-
pose of capitalist governments. Let them go in
the trenches — the dirty swine! He was my
man. He was the father of my little one. And
now they have both gone. And the King sends
his regrets ! Bah ! I spit at the King ! I hate
them all. A fool of a woman in our road she

" THERE IS NO ANSWER " 305

says, ' You must be proud that your man died for
his country.' Rubbish! What do I care? I
want him. I want my man back. Will his
country care for me and love me? This is all
talk, done to blind people to the truth. I tell
you at the back of it all is cent per cent, con-
tracts — what you call it — jobs, profits, and
nothing else at all. I loved my husband, and
we were happy, and they take him away, poison
him with their filthy press, dress him in stupid
clothes, blow him to pieces, leave him to die in
the darkness, and then say they regret-! O God !
I can't bear it."

None of the others spoke. Evelyn was crying,
Mr. Querril moved restlessly in his chair, and
Decimus remained immovably silent.

Suddenly Ebba stood up and swayed by the
fireplace. Her bosom heaved and she dabbed her
temples with her handkerchief. Her voice re-
turned to its chilling note :

" Perhaps only in one way I cheat them. . . .
I gave my Rodney a present before he went. A
small white packet always to keep by him."

" What was that? " came from the dark moun-
tain in the corner.

" Morphia !

" Do you think I did n't know all this was go-
ing to happen? I have seen it all a thousand

306 THE QUEBBILS

times. My Rodney lying bleeding out in the
open, and I say, ' Anyway they sha'n't make him
suffer — for long.' 1 hope to God he was able
to take it!"

Then Mr. Querril spoke. He said :
" Dear me, how very distressing."
And the singular ineptness of the remark
slashed the air 'like a knife.

It came more in the nature of an appeal, the
cry of a Querril to have done with all these hero-
ics. It suggested that what was distressing was
not the information imparted by Ebba, but the
atmosphere of crude emotion she was creating.
Ebba was genuine enough, but she never ap-
peared so alien to the Querril world as at that
moment. Fancy dragging all one's niches and
shrines into the open! And then the melodra-
matic reference to morphia! Who was this for-
eign woman coming here and calling Rodney
" her man," and shouting about her love for him
like an animal crying for its mate? ... Of
course it was all true, horribly real, overpower-
ing in its primitive force and all the more — dis-
tressing. Distressing to Evelyn that all the fine
sensibilities of her father's sympathetic nature
should be so roused — almost outraged. Dis-

" THERE IS NO ANSWER " 307

tressing to Mr. Querril that Evelyn should be
sobbing in this woman's arms, that his friend
Decimus should be a witness of the disruption.

It was not like Rodney, almost an insult to
Rodney. Rodney would be terribly distressed
that she should have told them about the mor-
phia; distressed that she should have jarred the
raw edges of their emotion. Rodney would have
said nothing. Any experience he had had to en-
dure he would have endured — fortiter et recte,
like a Querril, like a — gentleman.

The stress of this abrupt experience seemed to
pull Mr. Querril together. He stood up, and
patted Ebba on the shoulder. He said kindly,
but with a firm control of his voice :

" There, there, my dear. We must all try and
bear this for the sake of each other."

In some respects it was an unfortunate re-
mark. It appeared to anger Ebba. The vein
she struck was bordering on the hysterical.

" Ah, yes," she cried. " It is all very well for
you. You have 'each other.' I have no each
other. For me it is all finished. What is the
good of pretending? You, none of you ... you
don't even like me. I am alone."

" Ebba, dear," sobbed Evelyn, " you know we
all love you."

" You love me at this moment because you are

308 THE QUERRILS

sorry for me. But to-morrow? Next month?
Next year? "

" We will always love you, Ebba."

Decimus winced, and Mr. Querril, who was
walking up and down the room, like an animal
seeking some egress from its cage, rang the bell.

Mrs. Yardley was communicated with. She
and Evelyn together got Ebba to bed, accom-
panied by the usual two hot-water bottles.
When they had administered what comfort they
could, both spiritual and material, they tip-toed
downstairs, and Mrs. Yardley remarked :

" Poor lamb ! There 's many a million 'aving
to go through what she 's going through. Many
a million fine young gentlemen like Master Rod-
ney won't never come back to their wives and
sweethearts. Gawd ! that Kayser ! . . . I M like
to 'ave 'im for 'alf an hour alone in the boiler
'ouse ! "

By which dark menace — playing so fine a
tribute of confidence in her own physical attri-
butes — Mrs. Yardley conveyed the idea that her
political judgment in any case differed from that
of the lamb upstairs.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FOEESHOEE WOMAN

PETER, encumbered by a heavy kit of
sketching materials, walked briskly up the
hill. His limbs, cramped by the confined po-
sition in which he had spent the afternoon, re-
sponded joyously to the springy surface of the
moor. He walked on and on, humming to him-
self, and absorbing little painters' visions of
gorse and hill and scudding clouds. His cheeks
were brown with the sun and wind. His step
was light. For the first time for many years he
felt that exhilarating sense of contact with his
surroundings which only good health can give.

Up and up he went, and suddenly the sea lay
before him, a vast movement of varying lights
and colors. The horizon was lost in mist, except
to the east where a long strip caught the sun
like a knife-edge. He hurried on to the edge of
the cliff. The expanse of vision was enormous.
A long unaccountable line of foamy green sud-
denly ended in a dark bank of blue-gray. In

309

310 THE QUERRILS

the great scheme of these elements, tiny ships, re-
vealed at odd intervals, appeared evanescent and
insubstantial.

" This is no painter's job," thought Peter.

But it was very moving, very impressive. He
stood there a long time, trying to take it all in.
And suddenly the buoyant mood passed. The
cold hand of loneliness touched his heart. This
panorama, which was so extensive that one could
scarcely judge the scale, produced in him a
yearning for companionship. The little corner
of the moor, where he had painted a rough road
vanishing into a clump of trees, was like a friend,
tangible and confiding; but this was disturbing,
like finding oneself behind the scenes of the uni-
verse, looking into a workshop where the ele-
mental forces were turned out. It was like a
bland exegesis of fatality. A million men or a
million years, what is it in all this? One small
man in gray flannels, with a sketching outfit —
what in God's name does he matter?

And Peter wanted to matter tremendously.
He had muddled his little piece of life, muddled
it and paid the penalty. He had suffered, been
down to hell, and by a miracle he had returned.
And he had found hell a most informing place.
It had given him a clearer vision of the road that
lay before him. What was left should be conse-

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 311

crated to noble ends. There was so much to do,
to build, to understand. And all these things
one had to face and carry out alone. Only . . .
there is a price to virility. The invalid takes on
a kind of protective coloring. The invalid in
any case is spoilt and petted. But when one can
swing alone free and strong in the winds of
heaven, is it sufficient to seek noble ends —
alone? Peter turned eastwards. By the gap
above Furley Beacon was a path that led down
to the shore. " The family " would probably be
there.

Peter walked briskly, but he could not quite
shake off the mood of loneliness that had sud-
denly assailed him. And the mood irritated him
because he could not dissipate it with the big re-
flections of the philosopher. He could not argue
himself out of it. Was it a physical thing? a
legacy of prison life?

" A kind of entailed estate ! " he thought. " I
suppose all through my life I shall be a prey to
these megrims of melancholy."

The conclusion brought him no consolation.
It was weak to be a slave of moods. He reached
the gap by Furley Beacon. He rested for a mo-
ment, and then, as though impelled by some un~

312 THE QUEERILS

accountable instinct, he hurried down the chalk
cutting to the beach. When he arrived there he
sat down, and looked at the sea. It was no
longer a vast and unmanageable perspective, but
a low horizon with long lines of foaming white
and gray, humming over the sands.

And then Peter suddenly became alive to the
fact that fifty yards away was the figure of a
woman looking out to sea. She was wearing a
blue-gray frock, but she had no hat, and the wind
was gently fanning the free strands of her hair,
and pulling her skirt tightly eastwards, as though
possessed with a whimsical anxiety to see this
fine brown hair blow free, and to have a more
intimate view of the slender, graceful figure.
And Peter had two simultaneous thoughts. One
was:

" There 's some naughty old god out there who
wants to tear her clothes off."

The other was :

" It 's the foreshore woman ! "

Perhaps, aided by some instinct of chivalry
produced by the first-mentioned thought, but
more by the compelling revelation of the second,
Peter Querril threw down his sketching stool
and left all the other paraphernalia of the jour-
neyman landscape-painter in a heap, and walked
across the sands to her. She was right by the

THE PORESHOBE WOMAN 313

edge of the sea, which seemed to be throwing otft
its long white arms seductively. She did not
turn till he was within a few yards, then she
swung round and looked at him. It was quite
true. In her eyes there danced the sparkle of
the waters, the glow of life in the making, the
love-light made by the sea when God was young.
And she stretched out her arms and said :

"Peter! . . . Peter! My Peter!"

And he took her hands and kissed them, and
they stood there looking at each other amidst the
hiss of the waters, and the screams of a flock of
gulls that had just discovered some delectable
garbage being washed ashore. And for all they
knew they might have been standing on the
water, or in the clouds, or in some place where all
is light and movement, where nothing has ever
happened before, but is now happening abruptly,
terrifically . . . where there is no time, no con-
nection with anything else, but just one surging
effulgence sufficient unto itself.

It was significant that he only kissed her
hands. There was a momentary reaction of con-
straint. They were like two people who had
been suddenly blinded by looking up at the sun.
Peter held her hand, and said almost limply :

" I did n't know you were here."

She laughed, and he saw the breath of the old

314 THE QUEBKILS

god playing around her smooth cheeks and her
disheveled hair. She was talking, but he was so
consumed with the unexpected discovery of her
imminence, he could hardly listen. What was
surprising was not that it could happen — of
course it was bound to happen as surely as that
the tide would reach its appointed landmark —
but that it could happen with such dynamic
thoroughness, so suddenly, fiercely, inevitably.
Such a consuming business. What was she
saying?
"We were demobilized last Tuesday. . . ."
Now here was a curious position! Demo-
bilized! Fancy demobilizing a foreshore
woman ! a goddess ! The world was crazy !

" You 've no idea how ripping it is to get out
of those beastly old clothes, and get into a comfy
frock ! "

" My dear, the naughty old god out there was
trying to pull it off you ! "
" What are you talking about, Peter? "
They were walking side by side along the shore,
and he put his arm round her waist in the manner
of the old days. Now and then they peeped at
each other. How she had developed! She
looked stronger, firmer, finer . . . but she was
still Annette. What was the mystery of it all?
Why was she just " old Annette " of yore, and

THE FORESHOKE WOMAN 315

now she suddenly blazes down on Mm, a con-
suming deity — a foreshore woman !

Ill

They drifted under the shadow of the cliff, and
Peter said :

"When you stand on the shore why do you
gaze out to sea? "

"Well, you silly old thing, I don't know. I
suppose the sea 's more amusing! "

Amusing? Oh, no! Peter shook his head.
That would n't do at all. They sat on the hollow
basin of a rock, and he fumbled with her hand,
as though pondering over the levity of her
remark.

" I '11 tell you why it is, Annette. The sea is
afraid of you and he loves you madly. You see
he made the love-light in your eyes. But he was
only the workman. The love-light was n't made
for him. That 's what angers him. He 's wear-
ing himself out. He's an aristocrat, the sea.
He thinks the land is bourgeois, a nouveau
arrivte. . . ."

Peter looked very solemn. He was trying to
unravel the imponderable, to recall some tangled
impression. A whimsical smile played around
the mouth of Annette.

316 THE QUERRILS

" This does n't explain why I look out to sea,
Peter."

" No. . . . But you see tlje love-light is there,
and it was n't made for the sea."
- " Who was it made for, Peter? "

" Some thug way over the other side of the
horizon ! "

" Some what? "

" Some thug ! "

" Whatever is a thug? "

"I don't know. It's a term tfony used. I
think it means a very unpleasant person ... a
chap who has done all sorts of things . . .
wicked things. Played havoc with his life . . .
and suffered for it. I suppose I 'm a kind of
thug ! "

Peter buried his face in his hands. The smile
left Annette's lips. She was impressed by the
curious solemnity of the boy's manner. He must
have endured experiences in which all these sym-
bols were involved. He was all mixed up —
queer. He would have to be helped out of it.
She rested her hand on his shoulder.

" Peter dear, I know what you mean."

They looked at each other's eyes, and the flash
of understanding could not be disregarded.
Peter pulled himself up into a kind of ball. He
sat on his haunches, with his arms clutching his

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 317

legs, and his chin hovering above his knees. His
voice sounded hollow as he crowded his sentences
one on top of the other breathlessly :

" No, no, it 's no good, Annette. Don't look
at me with those dear eyes of yours. I 'm not
good enough for that. I'm all smirched and
spoilt. I 've been right down into the deep pit.
I '11 carry the clay of it all my life. I 'm an
outcast, a waster, a — thug! It's all a mid-
summer madness. I 've got to see it through
alone ! Oh, God ! how I envy Rodney. To have
gone out in the big way! Given oneself for a
cause. ... To have lived tremendous, compact
hours, and then the sudden flash and all is over.
No regrets, no awful memories, no legacy of
loneliness. I used not to believe in hell, but I
daren't tell. ... I simply daren't tell what I
have suffered — "

Annette became suddenly very alert. Her
shining eyes never once left his face. It was as
though she realized that she and Peter had
stumbled into some awful dilemma, and the
responsibility ©fretting out of it rested upon her,
and upon her alone. She had once driven a car
In France that an aeroplane above was trying to
bomb. The sensation was not dissimilar. She
had kept her head on that occasion, and she

318 THE QDERRILS

meant to keep it on this. Peter was right out of
hand. He raced on :

" I 've never told any one before. It 's not
what they did to me. It 's what I did to myself
and to — the others. I 've dragged them all
down with me. . . . Emma. I never really loved
her. That's what makes it so disgusting and
yet . . . you can't understand this, Annette.
You don't know. If you 've ever had an experi-
ence like that there 's a kind of sacred bond. It
fen't just simply an animal business. And after-
wards . . . Oh, God! I 've ruined her! "

Annette sat meditatively apart, her small chin
resting on her hands. There was nothing of the
foreshore woman about her now. She was just
a very modern young person who had knocked
about the world, and was facing a difficult situa-
tion calmly.

" When I was well enough," Peter continued,
" I went up to London and sought her out. I
found that she had left Grete's. He had turned
her out. I waited for her one Friday outside
the lawyer's where she goes to collect the money.
She recognized me all right, but I hardly recog-
nized her. Her face and everything about her
had coarsened. I went home with her. She had
a small flat in Bloomsbury. She didn't seem

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 319

to hare any bitterness against me. She was
qnite normal only . . . dulled, finished. Even
then I did n't quite realize, not till I had been
there some little time. And I shall never forget,
never, as long as I live, the tones of her voice, a
kind of husky lisp. . . . She caught hold of me
suddenly and she said, 'Well, come on, kid.
What about business? 9 That's what she said
— just like that, 'fcome on, kid. What about
business? ' And the words will ring in my ears
forever. It was only then that the full sig-
nificance dawned on me. Just the atmosphere
of the room, the flashy mirror, scent, a bed only
consisting of a mattress and pillow. . . . And,
oh, God ! It was I ... it was I who had driven
her to this ! "

The sun had set, and the gulls were wrangling
amidst some dark objective along the beach.
Martins swung in circles above their heads, and
the sea roared dully as it withdrew its white arms
farther and farther away from these two small
people perched upon the rock.

Annette toyed with a chain round her neck, as
though she were waiting for the storm of remorse
to subside. Then she said quietly :

320 THE QUERRILS

"Peter, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if
you 're not a genius ! "

" What do you mean? "

" You 're such a baby ! I believe that all great
men are like that. They 're just helpless babies
about anything except their own job. Some one
has got to mother them all the time."

"You can't understand what it's like,
Annette."

"Now you've got to be very sensible. I'm
not a fool, Peter. For four years I've lived
among girls and soldiers. I 've seen awful
things, moral and physical — much worse than
you have. I know what goes on. And I 've
changed a lot since the old days when we did
nothing but play tennis and be sweet to each
other. 'The Q uerril set ' — as we called it —
gave one aTaise impression. Life is a sterner
business than that This is how I see your case.
It is quite true that you made a fool of yourself
on one occasion. You were carried away by all
sorts of conflicting emotions at the time. You
were absurdly young. You lost your head
Well? I know that crowds of quite nice people
do that. Others not quite so nice make a regular
practice of it. It's got to be faced. It isn't
the end of all things."

Peter looked startled. He could not believe

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 321

that his foreshore woman could hold such worldly
views. It was almost a disillusionment. He
untied his legs and gripped two handfuls of sand
from the beach below.

" But the girl . . . the result ! " he said
hoarsely.

" Now, look here, Peter," replied the modern
young woman. "Any one would be sorry for
that girl. She's a slave of circumstances and
environment. Tell me, when she came to the
flat, did she give you the impression of being an
innocent child, who had never been . . . kissed

— for example? "

" No, as a matter of fact she kissed me first, I
remember."

" Now think it over, Peter, and don't tell me
the answer. What sort of kiss did she give you?
It 's rather important."

"We were standing by the door. Suddenly
she put her head back and closed her eyes.
She — "

" I don't want to know, Peter."

" I 'm sorry."

" It 's all right. I saw her one day in court.
Poor wretch ! The state has made no provision
for girls like that. They are predestined to be
women of the street. She had all the qualities

— laziness, lack of imagination, sensuality, love

322 THE QUERRILS

of ease, and at the back of it all — driving
poverty. I am very doubtful whether you were
the first. She said her father drove her there,
but she need not have come. She need not have
kissed you ... in that way. She need not have
come out of the room of which you gave her the
key. And afterwards? Was she upset? Not
the slightest. She shut you out of her life and
took the money. She went to live with a rich
man till he turned her out. Before that she had
lived with an Austrian waiter. And now
although she has enough to live on, she still leads
an immoral life. It 's horrible^ Peter, but it 's a
grim fact. You made no difference one way or
the other."

" I can't believe that ! I can't believe it ! In
any case I contributed to her downfall."

"Life is a rough-and-tumble, Peter dear, a
conflict. We've all got to take a chance.
We 're none of us perfect. And sometimes our
imperfections help as much as our virtues. It
does n't do to be always harking back and sen-
timentalizing. We destroy ourselves in that
way. If we make mistakes we must still carry
on. I learned that in France. It's a great
phrase — to carry on. Oh! Peter, you have
simply got to carry on, do you understand me? "

The light was failing, and Peter was quite

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 323

rilent. He sat there for some moments, immersed
in thought. Suddenly he became aware of an
unexpected and distressing embarrassment. His
companion was crying. The foreshore woman
was leaning forward with her face buried in her
hands. He touched her arm and whispered :
" Annette . . . Annette ! "

She completed her sobs to a satisfactory condi-
tion of sustained moisture. Then suddenly she
burst out:

" What do I care for all this, Peter? If you
can't think of yourself, think of me. Why
should I be destroyed for Emma Troon? I want
to be just selfish. I want to fight for my own
happiness. I love you. Oh ! can't you see I love
you? I want you. You belong to me. I won't
have you talking all this nonsense. You 've
suffered enough. I 've suffered enough. I don't
want you to regret, to have all these beastly
feelings — "

"Annette . . . Annette!"

" Peter, I love you. I would make every ex-
perience sacred for you. I'd wrap my life
round yours so that you should not suffer. I
know I 'm selfish, but I don't care. I simply
don't care ! "

324 THE QUERRILS

" Annette, I did n't understand."

"Peter, take me in your arms. Hold me
tight. Give me your lips, Peter. I love you. I
can't go on without you. Oh ! darling, don't you
understand? "

" Annette, I love you. Only I 'm f rightened."

" Kiss me, Peter. Again ... again . . .
again. O-oh ! "

It was almost dark. The sea was still re-
ceding. The wicked old god had slunk sullenly
away, realizing that the game was up. And still
they sat there holding each other, lost in the
mystery of a magic communion. There was so
much to tell each other ; all the little things that
had ever happened, and which suddenly seemed
to awaken into new significances — it was impos-
sible to know where to begin. So they said
nothing at all. f They tucked all these newly im-
portant things away among the shrines and
niches, soon to be filled by the little figures of
each other's whimsies and desires and loves. A
world was in the making; as yet too crowded
with fragrant anticipations to talk about. They
could only peer across the threshold at eyes which
flashed back vast and mysterious promises, the
fulfilment of vague dreams, the dawn of un-
realized imaginings. . . . They touched each
other as though fearful of some twilight treach-

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 325

ery. For a long time they would remain silent,
then suddenly break out into snatches of wild
interrogative and passionate affirmation. It
was the woman of the world who eventually said :

" Peter, strike a match ! "

He did as he was ordered, and she looked at
her wrist- watch. Then she said :

" Peter, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
It '& past nine. The darlings will think we are
drowned ! "

The philosopher was too consumed with his
own affairs to be impressed by this statement.

He held her tighter, and kissed her. And the
dialogue proceeded on recognized lines.

" Oh ! Peter, can it be true? "

" You 're the loveliest thing in the world ! "

" I love you."

" Say it again. Five times."

" I love you. I love you. I love you. I love
you. I love you. How many was that? "

"Four!"

" Oh, Peter, it was six ! "

" You darling liar, say it again and you will
l.e right."

" I love you, but I believe you cheated."

" Don't argue, you 're wasting time. ,,

" What am I to do, master? "

" Kiss me five times ! "

326 THE QUERRILS

" I 've already kissed you a hundred times."

" But you must n't leave off. You must keep
on for years and years."

"The gulls are watching and the sea is
sulky."

" I know. I want the old god out there to
have a good view. He tried to tear off your
frock. He has got to understand that you're
mine . . . mine . . . mine."

"Oh! Peter!"

And with such banalities do philosophers and
angels regale themselves in pervicacious mo-
ments.

In the furnished house overlooking the bay
which the Querrils had taken for the month of
August, Mr. and Mrs. Querril, Martin, and
Evelyn were patiently awaiting their evening
meal. Magda was up in Scotland staying with
John's people, and her second child, who was
unpatriotic enough also to be a girl, was already
three months old.

Mr. and Mrs. Lemaire and Joan occupied an-
other furnished house barely ten minutes' walk
away, and Annette had telegraphed that after-
noon that she was on her way down.

Lieutenant Cecil, with a tooth-brush mustache

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 327

and a wrist-watch, and his well-cut clothes, was
still somewhere in the East, "Old Thing-ing"
the Sphinx doing his duty punctiliously, rag-
ging, being a gentleman, and generally con-
tributing to the establishment of the English
code.

Peter had been out sketching since lunch time,
and it was now half-past eight. They always
dined — or supped — at eight o'clock, which was
late for them, but the arrangement was made in
order to give Peter the benefit of the evening
light. Naturally he was often late. At half-
past eight Mrs. Querril decided that George
ought not to wait longer, and so the meal was
brought in, and consumed in tranquillity. At a
quarter to nine Evelyn said :

"I know what it is. Peter has met An-
nette. They haven't seen each other for four
years."

"Peter was always late about everything,"
replied Mrs. Querril, as though there were some
connection between these two ideas. In Mrs.
QuerriPs mind everything connected with Peter
was static. He was still a little boy, although
destined to marry Annette one day. She still
quoted the incidents of his extreme youth, but
from the day he went to prison she seemed to
lose all touch with him except as regards his

328 THE QUERRILS

material comforts. It was as though by a
supreme effort she had brought down the shutter
with such a snap she could not open it again.
She was if anything more openly loving to him,
but it was only the little boy who existed. The
fate of Rodney she accepted like the gentlest of
Stoics. Of Martin she talked of his future and
his ambitions, but Peter was a little boy who one
day stole Sir Phillip's apples, who said such
quaint things, who looked such a little angel in
the velvet suit with the lace trimming.

She never tired of telling stories about Peter,
but if any one said that they thought it would
be good for Peter to go to Paris and study, or
that Peter was growing up and would one day
marry and settle down, a puzzled look would
come to her old face and she would say :
" Well, I don't know, my dear. We must see."
At a quarter-past nine Joan appeared. Her
face was flushed with excitement. She said :

"lama bearer of good tidings. Annette and
Peter have just turned up at our house. They
look too silly for words. They say they're en-
gaged ! "
Evelyn exclaimed, " O-oh ! I am glad ! "
Martin grinned and said, " Really? "
Mr. Querril pirouetted on the carpet, and
jerked out, " You don't say so ! "

THE F0RE8H0RE WOMAN 329

Joan threw, her arms round Mrs. Qnerril and
said:

" Are n't you pleased, Aunt Jenny? "

Mrs. Querril smiled, and shook her head.

" You are pleased, are n't you, Aunt Jenny? "

Mrs. Querril continued smiling pleasantly.

" Peter and Annette? " she muttered after a
while. " Why, of course, dear, but — "

" But what, Aunt Jenny? "

"Peter was always going to marry Annette.
Don't you remember the night they were lost up
on Folly's Head? We searched all over the gar-
den and heath with lanterns. ... I remember
poor Lydia, she's dead now, poor girl! She
married the postman at Graynehurst arid had
three children — she wanted to drag the pond by
Mr. Burney's farm, all in the dark by herself.
She cried her eyes out because we would not let
her. . . ."

Nothing could convince Mrs. Querril that
evening that anything unusual had happened.
She seemed to harbor a suspicion that the young
people were in some way trying to pull her leg.
Of course Peter was engaged to Annette !

330 THE QUERRILS

VII

When they both appeared half an hour later
looking very disheveled, self-satisfied, and, as
Joan said, silly, the usual formalities of em-
bracing were disposed of very quickly. They
were both too agitated to eat, and Peter was in a
hurry because he had to see Annette home, and
loyal Joan slipped discreetly away.

It was nearly an hour later when Annette came
home. Joan had gone to bed — the two girls
shared the same room. Annette half undressed
and stretched herself luxuriously on her bed.

" Well? " said Joan sleepily.

" Life is very nice," replied her sister. " It 's
all over, and we're all going to lie around and
have a good time. The war has taught us a lot,
darling. It 's taught us the great value of self-
ishness. I 'm going to be just thoroughly selfish
and do exactly as I like forever and ever, amen ! "

" Are you? " murmured Joan doubtfully. She
was in no mood for argument.

Annette got into bed and turned out the light.
Ten minutes later Joan was on the borderland
of sleep, when she was startled into wakefulness
by a muffled sound. She sat up and whispered :

" Annette darling, are you crying? "

THE FORESHORE WOMAN 331

There was a brief interval, and then the whis-
pered reply :

" No, darling, I was laughing ! "
" Why were you laughing, Annette? "
"Oh! I don't know. One just has to some-
times. It 's all such a game ! "

CHAPTER XIX

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED HIS WAY TO GOB

"TTlOiJ he 's a jolly good fellow! "
J/ Decimus shut the door of his flat in Adel-
phi Terrace, and entered his comfortable sitting-
room. He turned on the electric light, and
walked to the easy chair by the fire. He flung
his cavalier's cloak and opera hat carelessly on to
another chair and sat down.
" For he's a jolly good f el-low! "
The words and music were still ringing in his
ears. It had been a triumph ! Nearly every one
who counted in the literary and artistic world
had been there. The dinner given to Decimus
Postern on celebrating his twenty-five years' con-
nection with the great publishing house of Bard,
Frobisher & Bard. Sir George Bard himself in
the chair. A jolly, intimate dinner, not too
large. All the wits and characters of Fleet
Street. Brilliant speeches, but — acclaimed by
every one — the speech of the evening, that of

332

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 333

" Our guest. " Decimus had been in form. He
knew he had been in form. Little epigrams had
tripped off his lips — two quite extempore — sly
digs at some of his contemporaries, and then just
that note of sentiment towards the end, genuine
affection for the men among whom he had
worked, and spent so great a part of his life.
And they had toasted him and sung that song,
and Decimus had felt — humid and moved.
They were dear good fellows, all of them. Their
enthusiasm was contagious. Certainly there had
been a good deal of champagne flowing, but it was
not only the champagne that made them stand
np and cry out :

"Good old Decimus! Bravo Dess! Bravo
Postern ! "

The roar of delight which greeted him when
he stood up ! He had drunk very little himself.
He might have had a glass or two of wine. He
hardly noticed. Life itself was sufficiently
intoxicating.

Twenty-five years! And he was — twenty-
seven when old Bard — now Sir George — first
asked him to be one of their readers. Twenty-
five years ago ! What changes and contrasts he
had observed in that time. How many of his
dear friends of the eighties and nineties — giants
in their day — were now no more! And then

834 THE QUERRILS

searing gaps among younger men who might
themselves have been giants had it not been for
the hungry maw of the great Moloch, who had
demanded them young and fresh and had seemed
to prefer them brilliant.

Decimus lighted his pipe and stared at the
fire. He had left fairly early after the speeches
were finished. He had a peculiar repugnance to
the fag end of a dinner like that, when men drink
whisky, and become reminiscent, and maudlin,
and indecent. It let the whole thing down. He
wanted to escape to the quiet sanctuary of this
comfortable room and persuade himself that it
was all true. That he was held in respect and
affection by his colleagues, that he was a jolly
good fellow, that, in short, his life was a success.

Fifty-two years old, and right at the top of
the tree, famous, popular, comparatively a rich
man. t

Decimus stared at the fire, and the little
ormolu clock on the mantel-shelf ticked almost
inaudibly, as though endeavoring to attune its
importunate beat to the mellow hour. The coals
crackled, and a small sandy kitten — the prop-
erty of old Jonquet, his factotum — stretched
and yawned luxuriously.

Decimus looked at the clock. It was a quarter-
past ten. Comparatively early. He wished he

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 335

had not hurried away from the dinner so pre-
cipitately. He felt by no means sleepy. He
did n't feel particularly talkative, but he wanted
something. . . . Perhaps to be talked to, to be
cross-examined. If some one were to say . . .

The mind and imagination of Decimus became
acutely active. An abrupt vision presented it-
self. The empty Cromwellian chair facing him.
The light from the shaded lamp, the play of the
firelight. The heavy background of velvet cur-
tains. It was the right setting. \It only re-
quired its central feature, a feature upon which
his imagination would insist so vividly. A
figure, all clothed in one of those soft clinging
things, all ribbons and laces, catching the fire-
light. A face half-hidden in the shadows with
the little flicks of hair, silky and gossamer-like,
glowing beneath the lamp. And a voice — per-
haps sleepy and purry like the kitten — but
warm and caressing :

" Well, dear, was the dinner a great success? "

Ridiculous! Decimus mounted the Trojan
walls and sighed his love towards the empty
chair, and struggled.

Fame, popularity, money, what are they all
when the chair is empty? A puling, sentimental
old fool, he was n't going to succumb to this emo-
tional temptation. God's truth! he was hard-

336 THE QUERRILS

ened to it He, the master of words, who had
never had the genius to say just the right few
words at the right moment. The only words that
really mattered.

But it was not only the words he lacked.
There must be some other quality missing.
Women liked him, confided in him, found him
sympathetic, and then there seemed to come — a
sudden emptiness. A lack of technic in the ero-
tic craft. He never appealed to them in that
way. And when he was young, he was not
always — humid.

Beneath the florid automata of his personality
there lay a great simplicity. He could pose but
he couldn't pretend. He could flatter but he
could n't flirt. He could be ironic, fantastic, in-
credibly flippant, but he could n't betray his con-
science. The postures and insincerities of his
appearance and often of his work were things of
which his soul took cognizance and laughed.
When he was a young man he had loved many
women in the way that a poet may love the turn
of a couplet, or some haunting phrase. And one
by one he had seen them pass. He had never had
the ability to say the right word. On a day they
would come to him and say :

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 337

" Have you heard that Phyllis is engaged? "

Or, "Do you know, Decimus, that Olivia is
going to marry that young Seton-Balcombe? "

He had heard all this and quivered. Felt
morose, groped at the new emptiness, and then —
observed it in terms of literature. And the thing
would become further and further embedded.

" Decimus, I hear that Phyllis has twins," and
" I say, old man, Mrs. Seton-Balcombe's second
boy has been sent down from Cambridge."

Mrs. Seton-Balcombe's second boy ! Oh, God !
the ravages of time !

He was nearly forty when the big thing came.
He was already heavy and slightly humid, not so
heavy and humid as now, but no sort of life-mate
for Old QuerriFs lovely daughter. He saw it at
a glance, never for an instant deceived himself,
never showed by the flicker of an eyelid the inso-
lence of his desires. He merely sat about, and
watched, and waited for the desolating informa-
tion:

" Have you heard that Magda is engaged ? "

And when it came, he made no comment, only
he knew that the last great emptiness of all was
on him. And he could not see Magda " in terms
of literature." He could only see her, as on
those occasions which formed some little land-
mark in his career, a diaphanous figure seated in

338 THE QUERRILS

the old Cromwellian chair. Warm, sleepy, furry
. . . irresistible.

" Well, dear, was the dinner a great success? "

Decimus picked up the kitten, and placed it on
his knee. It looked ridiculously small on the
vast expanse of his black trousers.

" Well, Babette," he said. " It >s been a great
night, has n't it? "

He had been a cad after that ! Not in act but
in thought. A nasty, searing, trickling thought
which obsessed him for a long time. The war!
John ! He would be killed ! It was disgusting
to be attacked by thoughts like that. Criminal !
No, God knows he never hoped it! It was only
that his imagination would run on with the little
pictures. Magda in distress. He, the old friend
and confidant. Magda coming more and more
to rely on his sympathy. He would be so sym-
pathetic ... so kind, so gentle. But the war
was over, and he had seen John at Chessilton
Heath with the almost scared, outraged expres-
sion on his face as he exclaimed :

"They never came out! They never came
out!"

His hair had turned gray in four and a half
years, but he looked very fit and strong . . . only
outraged, just outraged that the purposes of his
life had been thwarted. A fine fellow.

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 330

And now the third child had arrived. A boy
at last. George. Of course there would be sure
to be a George, thrusting him still farther away.
George and the dragon !

The dragon put the kitten down, and sighed, as
well as dragon might sighing for the lists of
great adventure and finding only — a domestic
cat.

Ill

After all he had had great happiness. Many
and very dear friends. His old friend Querril,
and his wife who was now so delicate, and
Evelyn, the only one at home. Rodney killed.
Peter and his wife living in Italy. Magda and
her family in Scotland. Martin married to a
Canadian girl and settled in Toronto, where he
was managing a publishing business. Not all
according to Mrs. Querril's dream. Well, we all
had to live our own life, and find love in our own
life. You cannot circumscribe the good stuff.
You push on the best way you can, stumbling
over each other's experiences. We're all much
better than we think we are. The trouble is to
believe that. There's such a heavy legacy of
doubt and distrust.

"And now they want to legislate our char-
acters," he thought. "To circumscribe our

340 THE QUERRILS

happiness. The Querrils tried that and failed.
Whatever we do, legislate, preach, educate, re-
press, there always comes a point in the story.
. . . Who was that who spoke about ' the story ' ?
Of course that is the whole point. There is a
story, and it's the human factor which makes
the story. The genius of men and women for
interfering and being restless. Put away all
these ideas of ' solutions.' Human life is a fluid
thing, a story. It goes on and goes back, and
the past is as active as the future. Where the
Querrils fail is that they believe the world has
only just been born, and they try and round it
up as though it were a young foal."

The meditations of Decimus were disturbed by
a ring at his bell. He instinctively glanced at
the clock. It was twenty minutes to eleven.
His man had retired to bed. A strange hour for
a visitor !

He got up and walked heavily to the door.
The passage was dimly lighted and he did not
recognize the two figures who stood there await-
ing admission. Before he had had time to speak,
a man's voice called out :

"Well, now, that's real neighborly of you,
Dess, to be in at this hour. We 're along at the
Savoy and I 've brought ' herself.' "

"My dear Tony!" exclaimed the large man

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 341

and he pressed the other's hand. " Come in.
I 'm delighted to see you and — herself."

"Herself" shook his hand and repeated his
name, "Mr. Postern," in a pretty, questioning,
upward inflection. So this was Tony's wife!
Dear, dear! After all these years — five years
now — Here was Tony back again, and lo!
dainty as a Donatello bambino, a fair, smiling,
little person — just the sort of wife you would
expect for Tony, with quick, intelligent eyes and
vivacious manners. Charming !

" I 'd no idea," Decimus was saying, as he
ushered them into the room, and Tony went on :

" Yes, well, here we are. We were married in
the fall, and we had a honeymoon down Colorado
way. And this is a kind of extension, revisiting
the glimpses of the moon. We arrived at this
little old town this forenoon. After dinner we
just buzzed around. Sadi has not been here
before, and she's just crazy about it all. We
went up the Strand and into a sideshow, but she
would n't sit still. So I fetched her away, and
we were going back home to the Savoy when I
suddenly said, ' Why, see here, Sadi ; let 's just
see if old Dess is hanging out in the old shanty in
Adelphi ; it 's only two blocks away.' And so we
came right along, and we found the dear old
fellow waiting for us for all the world as though

342 THE QUERRILS

he 'd figured it all out Now tell us all your glad
news."

Deeimus found himself being mildly but quite
unreasonably surprised that Tony and his wife
were not aware of the great dinner. A bewilder-
ing place, London. One can be a hero, a jolly
good fellow in one spot, and a hundred yards
away nobody knows or cares whether you are or
not.

Tony was in a characteristic attitude. He
stood in the middle of the room, holding himself
very straight, and swaying slightly sideways, like
a top winding itself up.

"Herself," as if to emphasize the fleeting
nature of the visit, perched herself against the
arm of the old Cromwellian chair, her hands
buried in her muff, her chin bent down, and her
limpid eyes glowing with pride at the small man,
and casting friendly glances at the large one.

" I wish she would sit down," thought Deeimus.
But no, this was a room where people came and
went, passed the time of day, borrowed books,
recorded troubles, and then passed pn.

u I 'm afraid my news is all very prosaic," he
answered. " Books and business. A kind of

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 343

papier-m&ch6 existence. I haven't seen the
Querrils for some time."

" Ah ! we reckon to go down and see old man
Querril and his wife for the week-end. Later
on we 're going to stay with Peter and Annette at
this famous villa of theirs at Pisa. Won't that
be bully!"

"Old man Querril and his wife" — a signif-
icant phrase! no longer the Querrils, or the
Querril family, but "old man and his wife."
Decimus envied Tony at that moment with a
green envy. Envied him his young wife, his
buoyancy, his eyes of youth. The Querrils were
not an integral part of his life. Just good
friends that one could meet and love and help,
and then go on and be recreated in some new
experience.

Tony chatted about old times and friends, and
suddenly herself said :

"Sammy dear, we mustn't keep our friend
up."

Why "Sammy?" — Goodness knows! No,
no, you little gray bird, that 's right. Don't keep
the dragon from his lair. Fly away to your snug
nest in the comfortable hotel, where you are all
alone, you two, where all the world that matters
is. Then in the cozy light put on one of those
flimsy pink and lace things, and- then say all the

344 THE QUERRILS

things that matter. Be real neighborly then.
Love him. People your world with little images
of him. Love him with all your soul — for he 's
a good boy.

" Well, Dess, we must get together."

"Yes, yes," he found himself saying by the
door. " Will you dine with me one night soon?
What are your plans? "

The social conventions! How tedious it all
was ! The great emptiness and nothing to fill it
with but dinners, and plans, and functions.

" Good night, Dess ! "

" Good night, Tony ! "

"Mr. Postern!" (the upward inflection of
course). " Fm very pleased to have met you! "

Oh ! damn ! He bent over and kissed her hand
in his best Georgian manner, but his heart was
heavy within him.

When they had gone he went to the window
and pulled back the curtain. The river lay be-
neath him dumbly reflecting the night sky.
Barges were groping their way along on mys-
terious errands. Gaunt buildings and factory
chimneys huddled in dark masses, as though
holding up their arms to God in supplication.
Right away to the east was a light in the sky,
probably a fire. Perhaps at that moment build-
ings were crashing down, lives were being lost

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 345

. . . Across the bridges were streams of cabs
and busses, people rushing home from theaters
and restaurants, returning from dubious activ-
ities. Who cared? Let the story go on. . . .

How ridiculous he was to-night! The night
of a great triumph! The jolly good fellow!
Success, fame. ... It was the visit of Tony
which had tipped the scale. If only " herself "
had sat in the chair, and not on the arm!* Of
course it was very late. He was very unreason-
able. But it was one of those petty things which
lingers in one's imagination, moves one suddenly
like an evil portent which has been there all the
time, but which one has only just observed.

Old Querril and his wife! What were they
thinking? Old Querril, who with all his
urbanity was something of an Eastern in his
passivity. He did not interfere. And yet —
what had been the result? Peter's terrible lapse.
Perhaps if old Querril had interfered, been more
informing and interfering. . . . And then Rod-
ney! If old Querril had only known the true
story about Rodney. Even now Decimus could
see the little piggy eyes of the staff -captain, who
had told him the story as he heard it from some

346 THE QUEBBILS

society woman, who had been told it confi-
dentially by an old brigadier.

" Your son died gallantly leading his men/'
this was the communication sent to old man
Querril. This was all he was allowed to know.
But it was n't the truth. How strange that from
the Querril family of all people should spring a
tragic horror of interference. If Bodney had n't
interfered with the Troons, Peter's fatal inter-
ference might never have materialized. If Bod-
ney hadn't interfered with an army order he
might yet be alive.

For Bodney had been shot, by order of a court-
martial, for acting culpably against the orders of
his superior officers during action. The story
was very confused. The little staff -captain with
the piggy eyes had not explained it very well.
He had demonstrated with salt-cellars and forks
and napkins one evening at a dinner at the Caf6
Boyale. Decimus was too dazed and perturbed
to follow it in detail. It amounted to the fact
that during a retreat Bodney had acted deliber-
ately against instructions. He believed his plan
was better and he disobeyed. If it had been
successful he would probably have been forgiven.
Men have often disobeyed before and risen to
great heights. But Bodney failed badly. It
was a terrible mistake. He misunderstood the

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 347

bigger idea. As a result a whole company — not
his own — was almost annihilated. . . .

And so on a certain morning when the first
flush of light crept over the eastern sky Rodney
had paid the full penalty for interference, stand- \
ing with his back to the ruined wall of an old
farm. There must have come to him some mo-
ment when, as Tony said, " he was all collected
together." All alone he had been. He had
weighed his chance, taken his quick decision —
alone. And in that moment all the weaknesses V
and all the strength of the Querril creed must
have been put to the test.

There must have been terrible seconds crowded
with vivid pictures — the garden at Chessilton
Heath, Peter's studio, all the shrines and niches
clamoring for homage, the thousand little inci-
dents of sentimental association, his wife, his
mother, "George," the photographs, Magda,
Martin — all of them, even the dogs not left out
of the collection. ...

Decimus could almost see the drawn lines of
Rodney's thoughtful face as he walked between
the guard. But would he falter? Not for one
second. Oh! no, Tony, you may call them
amateurs, but there is hope at the bottom of
Pandora's box. Rodney would see the game
through. His master-comfort at the end — that

348 THE QUERRILS

the others would not know. He would be tre-
mendously "usual," with his slightly twisted,
slightly ironic, smile, and his great pride of soul.
Peculiarly solicitous of the feelings of the guard,
almost apologizing for giving them this early
morning discomfort. And when he waited in the
darkness for the greater darkness to envelop
him, his attitude would be a gentle complacence
that he faced this last disquieting experience
alone. He would stand there with his heels to-
gether and his heard thrown back as though he
were saying :

"Well, God?"

Surely beyond that last bolt of physical dis-
ruption there would come to this sane and pur-
poseful individual some solution . . . some ex-
planation of the troubled problems of the life, a
life which had left him perplexed, questioning,
restless, dissatisfied ?

Decimus had visualized this scene a hundred
times, but to-night it was more vivid than usual.
The visit of Tony had put the clock back, the
presence of his pretty wife, who would only sit
on the arm of the chair and was anxious to flutter
away, emphasized his own emotional isolation.

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 349

-y

But his mind was very busy; the old processes
were at work. The thing was reducing itself to
" terms of literature." He almost instinctively
reached for the pad on his writing table and took
up a fountain pen. After all, that was his job,
his mission. And it had compensations. A
jolly good fellow !

Poor old Querril ! Even he in his way was an
interferer. He was a passive interferer. One
might go to old Querril and say, " Sir, your son
has had two years' hard labor for seducing a
young girl,'- and another might say to him, " Sir,
I must congratulate you! Your son died gal-
lantly for his country."

And one statement would be as effectual as
the other in disturbing his opinions and affec-
tions. He did n't require a government official
to tell him about his sons. He knew his sons bet-
ter than they did. He would love them in his
own way. If one made a terrible mistake, his
mind, which was schooled to make the broadest
allowances, and rather to accept the other fel-
low's point of view than his own, would be im-
mediately exercised with the utmost pity and
sympathy. He would be more likely to love and
help a boy who had sinned — as they call it —
than a boy who had achieved success. A most
regrettable thing to have sinned. One must have

350 THE QUERRILS

endured unspeakable anguish and mental dis-
comfort

And so old Querril was to an extent an in-
terferer because he remained impervious to the
majestic interpretations of laws, conventions,
and king's regulations. He had been a passive
interfere^ but Rodney had been an active inter-
fere^ a Westerner, an Anglo-Saxon.

Well, well, with all their faults, they were
decent people — these Westerners. Tony, John,
Magda, Rodney, old Querril, Peter, all different
but all very — Anglo-Saxon.

A curious race the Anglo-Saxon, restless, not
quite knowing what it wants, with the genius of
dissatisfaction more acutely developed than in
any other race. He must crawl all over the
earth and see what 's doing. He has an uncon-
trollable impetus to see over the ridge. He must
go and look at the North Pole, and the South
Pole, and wade through malarial forests in Cen-
tral Africa. He does n't know why, but he just
has to do this. Then he returns home and after
a long time thinks about it all — he 's rather slow
in the up-take. And then one day — or more
probably one night — something starts worrying
him. Those women who threw their babies in
the Ganges as a religious offering. Malay slaves
working in salt mines for Chinese masters.

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 351

People who mutilate themselves. And one night
when the Teuton, and the Slav — and even the
Latin — is sleeping soundly in his bed, he wakes
up and thinks:

" No, but, damn it all ! babies in the Ganges ! a
bit thick ! "

And he finds that this disturbs his nights. And
one day it gets beyond him. He suddenly packs
up and goes off to interfere. He takes his golf
clubs, and his ridiculous clothes, his zinc chapels,
his gramophones, and his evening dress. And
being a practical man, he thinks :

" Well, as I 'm going, I might as well take a
few pounds of tea to sell to the natives."
And of course the malevolent person will say :
" Ah ! yes, that 's what he goes for ! "
But it isn't true. Or in any case it's only
partly true. (Every one acts from mixed
motives.) The principal reason is that he is
driven to it by some power greater than himself.
He doesn't like interfering. He's like old
Querril — he detests a situation. He likes play-
ing games, making money, enjoying himself.
But there's always this old demon of Interfer-
ence jogging his elbow. There are certain broad
principles of humanity that he is driven to insist
on. He has no objection to what he calls " this
tomfoolery of mysticism." People can have whai

352 THE QUEBRILS

religion they like, think and act as they like, but
— damn it all ! babies in the Ganges !

He represents as it were a landmark in evolu-
tion, the conscience of mankind, a long, long way
back from what the Querrils and their kind de-
mand, but still a very definite and strong land-
mark. A decent chap !

With all his vanities and inanities, repressions,
limitations, and hypocrisies, he 's quite the best
of the lot. He tries to play fair, and he 's never
satisfied. He 's always grumbling and grousing.
He grumbles at his successes as much as at his
failures — rather more so, in fact. And at times
he pays a bitter price for interference. He in-
terferes unwisely and sometimes culpably, but
still he interferes, and there's hope for a man
or a woman or a state which will do that.

VII

The pen of Decimus was busy on the pad.
But he was not writing. He was drawing pigs
and wolves and penguins, as these thoughts raced
through his mind. He was himself again. The
mood of conscious isolation had passed. He was
with a very dear friend. The thing began to
take shape — the very newest of the little Wedg-
woods. Decimus glowed. He could see it all.
It would come quite easily and be very —

THE MAN WHO GRUMBLED 353

popular! Not a criticism but a eulogy — in
fiction form. " The man who grumbled his way
to God."

They would simply love it. It would deal with
low life contrasted very sharply with high life,
and would preach the gospel of dissatisfaction.
Children must be taught in the schools never to
be satisfied. There must be a chair of dissatis-
faction at Oxford, a grumbler's stool at Cam-
bridge. Of course it must be written in a light
key or else no one would read it. There would
be a dedication: "To the Lady who Always
Beads the Last Chapter First." Excellent !

The pen of Decimus hovered above the pad. A
small moth fluttered across the room and settled
on the green shade of the lamp. It ran up and
down it, fluttering its wings. It appeared angry
with all these modern contrivances which pre-
vented it from ful filing its preordained mission
of self-destruction. Where were the candles of
our ancestors which with simple directness beck-
oned us to an obvious and natural fate?

Decimus wrote " Chapter I," but his eye fol-
lowed the moth. From the lampshade it made
straight for the old Cromwellian chair. It
dusted its wings against its side, polished by the
friction of centuries. But back again it went
savagely to the green light.

354 THE QUERRILS

"You mast know then that the man who
grumbled his way to God was a man like you may
be, or like I am — just a poor, indeterminate;
unsatisfied creature with impulses for good but
... a halting, questioning, half -believing, moral
philanderer. Oh, God ! wanting so much to love
you and to love the world. Underneath it all —
a decent felloe, the linsey woolsey fabric of hi*
mentality . . ."

Words, words, words! Where has it gone
now?

" The man who grumbled his way to God was
the son of a poor carpenter who was born
a v ...

Oh ! go away, little moth !

THE END

XB 32 1 53

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